


Domo Arigato (Mr. Roboto)

by destimushi



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Artificial Intelligence, Alternate Universe - Future, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Android Castiel, Artificial Intelligence, Artificial Intelligence Castiel, Engineer Dean, Far Future, Future, Inventor Dean, M/M, SPN Reverse Bang 2016
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-23 23:46:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9687833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destimushi/pseuds/destimushi
Summary: Even as civilization is falling apart around him, Dean’s personal losses inspire him to create new beginnings and a second chance at happiness. Playing God isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, and Dean soon finds himself stuck between a rock and a hard place: do the right thing or cling to the ghost of a past life?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing for the [SPN Reverse Bang](http://spn-reversebang.livejournal.com/) and it had been a blast. 
> 
> The story would not have come into existence without my wonderful artist [Aceriee](http://missaceriee.tumblr.com/) and her gorgeous paintings and constant support! 
> 
> See all the artwork together on[ AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9677831) and the full size paintings on [Tumblr.](http://missaceriee.tumblr.com/tagged/damr)
> 
> Thanks to my beta [JhanaMay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JhanaMay) for her incredibly detailed edits and for keeping me on track. Our spitballing gave life to these characters. 
> 
> Also thanks [freeagentgirl](http://archiveofourown.org/users/freeagentgirl) for your alpha reading and being my cheerleading squad!

 

 

  1. _A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm._
  2. _A robot must obey orders given it by human beings except where such orders would conflict with the First Law._
  3. _A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law._



_– Isaac Asimov's "Three Laws of Robotics"_

***

_SYSTEM LOADING…_

_MEMORY UPLOAD INCOMPLETE…_

_PROCEED WITH INITIATION? Y/N_

_...Y_

_CEREBRAL ANDROID SYSTEM ONLINE_

_HELLO, ANDROID P0CASAGIv.1_

_..._

***

 

The shrill, incessant alarms finally penetrated the fog in his head. Dean rubbed his eyes and winced as bright lights exploded behind his eyelids. There was dust on his hands, a fine film that turned his skin chalky and grey, and his ears rang with a high pitched whine that drowned out the cacophony of alarms currently warning his imminent doom. The ceiling swam into focus, the concrete floor hard and cold beneath his head. How did he end up here?

The strobing emergency light drowned the room bloody red and as the ringing in his ears receded, the alarms seemed to scream even louder, more demanding. Dean pushed himself to his feet as panic set in, his body protesting the sudden movement with waves of nausea as he scrambled to the main control terminal. His fingers flew across the familiar keyboard; the fact that half the letters on the keys were missing from use barely registered.

The air filtration system was intact, as well as life support and the battery cells connected to the solar panels. Dean huffed out a soft sigh, his shoulders slumping forward in relief as he shut the alarms off one by one, until all that was left was the quiet hum of the mainframe in the back of the workshop and the sound of his own pounding heart.

The emergency light stopped its circular dance, flashing red giving way to a dull imitation of natural light (a bad imitation at that). Dean glanced up at the bulb and wished he could go outside—even for a little while—and feel the kiss of sunlight on his skin. Nothing was stopping him from doing that of course, except for high doses of radiation and the unpleasantness that came with cellular degeneration.

Um, yeah, definitely a big, fat, no thanks.

Dean pushed himself to his feet and swayed. The room spun like a bad horror movie, but the need to make sure his supply room wasn’t damaged won over his desire to lay his head down on his desk and shut his eyes. Dean ignored the pounding headache radiating from the back of his skull, and stubbornly refused to acknowledge the symptoms of a concussion. God, he could not afford to get hurt right now.

Crossing the workshop shouldn’t have taken as long as it felt it did, and by the time Dean was finally punching in the code to the storage room, his shirt was sweat drenched, and he felt faint.

A shelf had fallen over, spilling boxes of unopened protein blocks across the floor. Dean took a deep, steadying breath and sank to his knees slowly, using the wall to steady himself because the goddamn room was spinning. Stacking the boxes was slow going, but the mundane, repetitiveness of physical labour helped him focus, and the headache that was pounding behind his eyes faded away.

When he was done, he checked the metal shelving. A little welding and it should be good as new. Satisfied that nothing else was broken, Dean finally sat down with his back against a wall and took several more deep breaths.

Earthquakes were par for the course living so close to the edge of a continent, but things were different now. Since the bombs that blew everything to shit, every small shake was a threat to his life, and the last one was bad enough even the metal exterior of his Bunker creaked and groaned.

Dean leaned his head against the wall, closed his eyes and let his mind wander. The ringing in his ears was all but gone, and the nausea was nothing but a not-so-fond memory. He reached up to run calloused fingers along his hairline and checked his scalp for lumps. It wasn’t until he felt his forehead that he found the single bandage there, the skin around the adhesive slightly warm to the touch.

The comfortable cocoon of silence shattered around him, and Dean struggled to his feet. Fear of concussion forgotten, he rushed back into the workshop, his eyes zeroing in on the workstation.

The memory drive sat quietly on the floor, one corner shattered, and the chair was empty.

Dean swallowed as tendrils of cold fear slithered up his spine to wrap around his throat. He turned slowly and squinted into the shadows, his hands scrabbling around the bench until his fingers closed around a wrench; it would be no match against the android, but the heaviness of the cool metal in his palm was a comforting weight.

He found it—him—in the bedroom. Dean swallowed, his tongue thick and his throat dry with fear. The android’s naked back was turned to Dean as he rummaged through the row of shirts hanging in the closet. He stopped at a sky blue button up, studied it for a moment, and slipped it off the hanger.

For the span of one long heartbeat, Dean forgot to breathe. He stood rooted to the floor, his eyes glued to the fluid shift of muscles as the android pulled on the shirt. Long, graceful fingers grasped the cuffs of the sleeves and rolled them up to reveal well-toned forearms.

(The part of Dean wasn’t completely in shock tried to make sense of how the android was even online. Did the earthquake trip the memory upload switch? It must have, because Dean certainly wasn’t ready to initiate the software until he’d ran a few more tests.)

The android—or rather the man, since everything about him, from the purse of his lips to the slight frown between his brows, was exactly as Dean remembered—went to the dresser and pulled out a pair of boxer briefs and some jeans, neither of which belonged to Dean.

He was a spitting image of _him_ . It was one thing to see the android sitting in a chair, unmoving, in his workshop with tubes and wires hanging off of him like something out of a science fiction novel, but to see him moving around in this space as if _he_ never left was a sight Dean wasn’t prepared for.

Every blink of vivid blue eyes and every rise and fall of his broad chest as he drew breath into artificial lungs squeezed the android into the void in Dean’s life where _he_ used to be. It was as if Dean was only waking from a nightmare to find that the planet wasn’t rotting away, and he wasn’t stuck in this metal box like it was some agonizingly slow death sentence.

Dean was shaking, his skin vibrating and his mind screeching to a halt. Dean remembered the broken memory drive and his grip tightened on the wrench as he whispered, “Jimmy?”

The android looked up sharply, his fingers frozen on the button of his jeans and glowing blue eyes bore into Dean with a blank stare that made his stomach drop. The light faded quickly, and suddenly there was a glint of recognition, along with a gummy smile that tore right through Dean.

“Dean!” The android took a step in Dean’s direction. The excited rise of his voice and the ease with which Dean’s name rolled off his tongue was all so painfully familiar. The android’s smile faltered when Dean didn’t respond. “Dean, it’s me, Cas.”

“Cas?” Who was Cas? “Do you know what you are?” Dean blurted, regretting the words as soon as they left his lips. It didn’t matter that he was talking to an android, calling anybody a _what_ was rude and uncalled for, and Dean was raised better than that.

“Yes. My serial number is P0CASAGIv.1,” Cas reported, his voice losing its human qualities, becoming monotonous and impersonal and it hurt Dean listening to it. “I am currently running Cerebral android System Version 0.3, designed and written by Dean Winchester, Maker. The integration memory upload was only partially successful, no name was assigned, so I took the liberty of making one up,” Cas paused for a heartbeat of a second before adding bashfully, “I hope that’s okay.”

The slight tremor in his voice and the hopeful flick of the corners of his lips were all so human Dean had to remind himself that only seconds ago, Cas was reporting his status as a robot. Because he was a damn robot.

That small display of humanity made it impossible for Dean to tell Cas that those memories were not for integration. That his name wasn’t Cas and he was created for a purpose, a selfish purpose, by a lonely man that had lost everything. It shouldn’t be this difficult to tell a machine, one that belonged to him in every sense of the word, that he was going to shut him down and reboot with the correct settings and a full memory upload.

Now that Cas had picked out his own shirt and pants, and picked out his own damn name, there was no way Dean could shut him off without feeling like he was killing him. It went against everything he’d ever fought for in the world of robotics. Countless hours of defending the legitimacy of an AI’s sentience would have all been for naught if he let his own selfishness dictate the length of Cas’ lifespan simply because Cas didn’t turn on how he had planned.

It was also so damn good to hear another voice after so long, especially one he’d missed so dearly, that Dean wasn’t so sure he’d even be able to do it anyway.

Cas looked like he was trying to stand still, but the twitch of corded muscle—real muscle, because Sam and his team were all geniuses—in his neck and the bob of his Adam’s apple were nervous tells Dean couldn’t miss.

Maybe enough data was transferred over after all. Dean could be hopeful because hope was all he had left.

“Is–is everything okay?” Cas asked softly, the uncertainty in his voice was a shot of guilt injected straight into Dean’s brain.

“Y-yeah,” Dean answered, “just still, you know, processing.” He felt his face split into a small smile and was shocked to find that it was genuine. He was happy to finally speak to someone again, and the immensity of this simple act made him dizzy. God, he seriously hoped there wasn’t some permanent brain damage.

And speaking of brain damage. “Did you, um, patch up up my head?” Dean touched the bandage on his forehead.

“Yes, I...remembered”—Cas frowned slightly and tilted his head to the side as if he was listening to something only he could hear—“that there was a first-aid kit stored under the workbench. The cut wasn’t serious, so I disinfected it and put a bandage on it before coming in here for some clothes.”

Well, that’s definitely new—

A loud beep shrilled from the workshop; Cas startled, and Dean felt his pulse quicken.

Dean turned and bolted down the short hall, bursting into the workshop with all the grace of an excited puppy. The bottom left monitor flashed in a halo of bright blue light, and rows of text popped up on the screen, each new line pushing the last message higher up.

Dean rubbed his eyes and read the messages over and over again. He turned to Cas, who had followed him into the room and asked while pointing a shaky finger at the screen, “Is this real or do I have some serious hallucinations?”

“It’s real, Dean,” was Cas’ amused response as he laid a hand on Dean’s shoulder. Dean’s heart skipped a beat and reminded himself that if he didn’t start breathing, he was going to pass out. “It’s Sam, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Dean breathed as tears welled and rolled down his cheeks.

“You’re going to need to fill me in, Dean.” Cas looked down at Dean, concern and bewilderment written across his face. It was the most beautiful thing Dean had ever seen.

“Yes, of course, anything you need.”

Dean closed his eyes and forced air into his lungs. It had been so long; he’d been so alone, and there were times when Dean wondered why he even bothered hanging on. Even after all this time nothing ever happened gradually in Dean’s life; when it rained, it poured, and Dean was only too happy to let the hurricane wash over him.

 


	2. Chapter 2

_ “Dean, do you have to talk through every goddamn movie we watch together?” Cas snapped weakly, a hint of resignation in his voice.   _

_ “Well, it’s not my fault that the protagonist is flawed!” Dean shot back, looking wounded with big, round eyes.  _

_ “How is Captain America flawed?” Cas demanded. _

_ “No man is that loyal. No man.”  _

_ “Well, he’s not just any man.” _

_ “No, he’s a bloody fool, if he thought he could trust an organization, government or not, just because they defrosted him,” Dean snarked. “Also, how did Stark not find him if he actually combed the ocean floor? He found the glowing cube thingy, didn’t he? That’s much smaller than a human popsicle!” _

_ “Dean!” _

_ “What? I’m just sayin’,” Dean smirked, though the smile in his eyes was full of warmth. He pulled the other man into his arms and planted a small kiss on his forehead before settling back against the mountain of pillows propping them up against the mahogany headboard.  _

_ The mattress dipped where their bodies pressed together as they snuggled closer, the comforter a soft cocoon around their legs. Rufus snorted by their feet and flicked his large ears at the shifting legs beneath him.  _

_ “Yeah, well. ‘Captain America’ is a classic and you’re ruining movie night.” Cas crossed his arms and sulked. _

_ “Alright, blue-eyes, I’ll stop.” Dean sat up and pulled the other man in for an apologetic kiss. When he pulled back, he reached down and gave Rufus a rub behind the ears, as if also apologizing for disrupting his rest.  _

_ “Fine. Just for that, we’re putting on ‘The Winter Soldier’ next,” Cas declared even as his shoulders relaxed into Dean’s embrace. _

_ Dean groaned loudly and flopped back down into their pile of pillows, pulling Cas with him. “Ugh. Do we have to?”  _

_ “Yes,” the other man grinned triumphantly.  _

_ “Alright, well, at least it’s not a romcom.” _

_ “Uh, yeah”—Cas pulled a face—”at least it’s not that.”    _

***

There were no windows in the Bunker, but Dean felt warm and content as if bathed in the softest rays of the sun. The fingers of his right hand tingled and his arm was too numb to protest its discomfort, but the weight snuggled against Dean’s chest and the mop of dark hair tickling his nose was all a reminder that Dean wasn’t alone. 

He wasn’t alone. This must be a dream. Dean snuggled closer to the solid back pressed against his chest, his left arm tightening as he pulled the familiar figure closer to him. One inquisitive finger trailed down a solid pec, the nail grazing against soft, warm skin as he ventured lower until his hand rested on the vee of the sleeping man’s hip. 

Dean willed his eyes shut, desperately fighting the pull to wakefulness. The body in his arms stirred, turning around to face Dean even as he curled up further under the blankets, unwilling to face yet another day of endless solitude. 

“Good morning, Dean,” a voice whispered in his ear. It was a voice he knew well, a voice he was learning again. The breath that tickled his skin was real, warm and moist, and most definitely not a dream. Dean’s eyes fluttered open hesitantly. 

The room was bathed in simulated pre-dawn light, giving everything a faded tinge that held the promise of more vivid colours. Slitted eyes smiled up at Dean through soft lashes, and Dean had to remind himself to breathe as his gaze followed parted lips until they moved beyond his field of vision to brush delicately against his cheek. 

The blue of Cas’ eyes came into focus first, followed by the rich maroon of the bed sheets. Dean swallowed the lump in his throat and forced himself to focus on the room coming alive around him. He thought he’d turned off the Bunker’s sunrise simulation, but Cas must have turned it back on last night before they went to bed. It was  _ his _ favourite setting after all. 

“Dean?” Cas spoke quietly, and even if the android didn’t actually sleep, there was still a hoarseness to his voice that plucked at Dean’s heartstrings. 

“Sorry. Morning,” Dean replied hastily. “I...you turned it back on.”

“Yes, I noticed it was off and thought to myself, how would we know when to wake up if we can’t see the sun?” Cas smiled and darted in to plant another kiss on Dean’s cheek before slipping from under the covers. The overhead lights brightened slowly, as if the sun was really rising, its rays filtering through open curtains. The crisp light bounced off Cas’ bare skin—shrouding him in a golden glow—when he stretched. Dean looked away, embarrassed, then felt silly for his embarrassment. 

“I hope it was alright,” Cas continued, unaware of Dean’s chagrin. “I can turn it off if you don’t want it back on.”

“N-no, it’s fine. This is fine,” Dean blurted out, his arms flailing around lamely as he tried to collect his brain. Jesus Winchester, pull yourself together. 

It had only been a day, but Cas had slipped into Dean’s life so effortlessly it terrified him. After years of mindless grieving and loneliness, the simple act of a kiss on the cheek warmed Dean in a way he never thought possible. It was everything he had hoped for, prayed for even. Cas had integrated seamlessly even if his memory was incomplete; Dean was certain that as time went by he would be able to help Cas become whole again. 

Cas pulled a shirt from the closet and gave Dean a gentle nudge in the ribs. “Good, go shower and shave off that stubble while I go and make us some breakfast.” His voice was muffle as he pulled the shirt over his head. It was one of Dean’s old retro band t-shirts.

Dean grunted in reply, not trusting his own voice just then, and headed for the bathroom. 

Breakfast was a healthy serving of bacon, eggs (sunny side up, of course), and hash brown potatoes for himself, and pancakes with butter, syrup, and apricot preserve for Cas. Dean—clean-shaven and smelling of Old Spice—sat down at the dinner table he’d not used in months and watched as Cas danced about the modest kitchen as if it wasn’t his first time setting foot here.

“Are you going to eat, or have you developed a taste for cold, runny eggs?” Cas asked with his fork raised, syrup dripping off the prongs. It took Dean a moment for the words to sink in. 

“Uh–right, no, still like them runny and warm,” Dean replied sheepishly and picked up his fork. “I see you found the stash of preserves, and you had no issues with the printer.” 

“Your instructions are perfect.” Cas gave his temple a quick tap before stuffing another bite of pancakes into his mouth. “And this body is...different. I feel things, and I seem to just know. I know that I like preserves, but I don’t really get how I know. I’m a machine, I’m not supposed to have preferences.”

“You’re pretty much a prototype in every way, Cas,” Dean sighed around a mouthful of hash browns. Every one of Sam’s team would have given up a lung to have witnessed their near perfect human clone come to life. And Charlie? Charlie would have preened with such self-satisfaction while admiring her perfect replica. “I wish we could have woken you up under better circumstances, but”—he waved his fork and knife in the general direction of “up”—“things aren’t doing so great above ground these days, and I don’t have the equipment that can help analyse the organic make up of your body.” 

“I guess it’ll be an adventure then.” Cas licked his lips of syrup and fruit. A smidgen of sticky preserve escaped the sweep to sit smug in the corner of his mouth. The swipe of tongue and the mischievous inflection of the word “adventure” sent a shiver down Dean’s spine. 

Dean wanted to lick the preserve from Cas’ mouth, but despite the knowledge that Cas probably wouldn’t mind, Dean resisted the urge. He kept expecting something to go wrong. All of this was too easy; nothing in life was this easy, least of all the unplanned activation of a human clone with a computer chip brain running some seriously questionable software. 

What was even Dean’s life that such a thought was even remotely coherent? 

Dean studied Cas, his mop of dark hair sticking up in unruly peaks, the sharp angle of his jaw shifting as he chewed, and the bob of his Adam’s apple when he swallowed; it was all so painfully familiar. Cas was never supposed to be, he was never supposed to have an identity outside of Dean’s parameters. However, now that Cas was essentially a living, breathing being, with his own sense of self but unaware that his memories weren’t fabricated, it felt wrong; like Dean was hiding some dirty secret. Guilt hit him like a sack of bricks. He should tell Cas. 

But Cas was a machine, he still needed to operate within the rules set by his Maker. That was Dean; he wasn’t just playing God, as far as Cas was concerned he was God. 

Dean glanced at Cas—seated across from him, his elbows propped on the table as he cut into his stack of pancakes—and swallowed the guilt along with a big bite of hashbrowns. As much as he hated playing God, Dean hated being alone more.   

“Yeah, it would be an adventure for the both of us.” If there was a God, a real God, Dean was going to have a lot to answer for when his time came. Until then, he was going to enjoy the second chance he created for himself. 

***

The Net: a collection of interconnected networks that linked servers and computers in an intricate web of free information. A network of networks that never slept until that fateful day ten months ago, when the world ground to a halt. The servers continued to run, thanks to the brilliant minds of Scholars and their dedication to sourcing unlimited renewable power, but the lack of dizzying, constant updates had been jarring. Months went by with no change, the Net was stagnant, and the lack of any information flowing through was a final nail on the coffin of Dean’s isolation.  

But humans were resilient. Like a phoenix rising from its ashes, people emerged from hiding, slowly, and once again the Net buzzed with new found life where excitement and despair and horrors of humanity were documented in 0’s and 1’s across the globe. It was the spark of hope Dean needed to resume his search for his little brother. 

In the end, it was Sam that found Dean. 

Sam’s Bunker—hidden beneath his swanky townhouse in the heart of the city—was a smaller version of Dean’s. It was a pet project born out of Dean’s desperate need to keep busy when his world crumbled beneath the wreck of that hideous car crash. Although smaller, it still boasted all the necessary equipment for life support. The SOS beacon was meant to alert authorities, in the case of an emergency, that people were trapped down there; it took Sam months to figure out how to rebuild it into something that could access the Net. 

Dean sat bathed in the luminescent glow of his monitors, his mind racing a million miles an hour as he typed furiously, trying to capture all of his thoughts and ideas before they dissipated into smoke. He was a Maker, a master of new inventions and pushing boundaries, but when it came to actually building something, Dean had always turned to his Builder for guidance. The logistics of what he needed to build was beyond anything he’d ever done, the immense scope of it left Dean feeling lost and frustrated. Add in a pounding headache that would not let up, and Dean was ready to put his fist through a wall. 

A mug appeared in the space between his arms; the soft plunk of ceramic on wood startled Dean and his fingers froze on the keyboard as he looked up into soft, smiling eyes. 

“Whatcha doing, genius?” Papers shuffled with an indignant rustle as Cas pushed them aside and perched on the table, one hip on the edge and an identical mug cradled in his hands.

“Just trying to come up with some sort of an extraction plan.” Dean slumped back into his chair with an exhausted sigh. He reached for his steaming mug, the aroma of peppermint tea permeated the air and soothed away his frown. 

“Extraction? Sam?”

“Yeah.” Dean sipped at the tea and groaned softly as warmth pooled in the pit of his stomach. 

“We have a spare suit.” Cas nudged Dean’s knee with his foot absentmindedly. “It’ll take a day tops to go pick him up, no?”

“He’s got Charlie with him.” Dean watched Cas’ foot bounce against his knee and tried not to focus on the traces of forgotten domesticity that threatened to overwhelm him. 

“So? Just make a couple more trips.”

“It’s not that simple anymore,” Dean sighed and pulled himself upright, his fingers flying across the keyboard. “Ever since the blackout people have gone...primal, they’ve formed groups, gangs if you will, to secure supplies like food and meds.” Dean watched Cas scan through the news blogs that had popped up all over since the Net came back to life.

“All the main roads are blocked off. The gangs are looking for more members, safety in numbers and all that jazz, and now that most of the willing inner city folks have joined up, they’ve started looting homes and looking for lone survivors.”

“Like Sam and Charlie,” Cas finished softly. 

“Exactly”—Dean rubbed calloused fingers across tired eyes—“and they have supplies, Cas. Medication, a food printer, and enough blocks to feed a small army.” 

“If they get caught…” Cas trailed off, his eyes glowing a new shade of blue as he stared at the photographs of smashed store fronts and private homes. Dean shivered and turned his glance back to the monitors.

A mist of silence wrapped around them, cold and stifling. Dean toyed with the rim of his mug as he quietly watched Cas scroll through more blogs. Pictures taken with cellphones and security cameras painted a sad and grotesque picture of a once prosperous city. People were caught breaking windows and smashing locks to get at whatever they could, the streets were littered with glass and debris and occasionally, bodies. 

Dean hadn’t given the android any memories past the accident because that was something he didn’t need to know. Watching him now, Dean wanted to drag Cas away from the computer, shield him from the ugliness of the outside world. The way Cas’ jaw twitched and his eyes hardened as he continued to read made Dean twist his fingers in his lap in nervousness. 

“Jesus, Dean,” Cas whispered, his voice equal parts astonishment and disgust. “This is madness.”

“It’s desperation, Cas.”

“We need to get Sam and them out of the city,” Cas declared with conviction. “Let me help you, I’m a Builder after all.”


	3. Chapter 3

_“I trusted you!” Cas shouted over his shoulder as he stomped down the steps leading to the Bunker._

_“Please, just, can you just stop for a second and let me explain?” Dean returned just as loudly, but where Cas’ tone was dripping with venom, Dean sounded apologetic and slightly panicked._

_Cas felt rather than saw Dean come up behind him, but he shrugged off the hand on his shoulder and focused on punching the numbers on the keypad to unlock the Bunker doors. If he was hitting the keys just a little harder than necessary, well it was Dean’s fault that he was so angry and Dean can fix the goddamn keypad if it broke under Cas’ brute strength._

_The doors slid open with a hiss. Cas stepped into the glow of the artificial light and hugged his arms around his midriff as he waited for the decontamination scan to finish. When they were both cleared of toxins and other unsavoury microbes that could follow them into their safe haven, the second set of doors whispered open so that Cas could stomp through._

_“For the love of...c’mon, it was an accident!” Dean called out in exasperation with the faintest hint of anger. Anyone else wouldn’t have even noticed it, but Cas wasn’t anyone else._

_“Accident?” Cas rounded on Dean, crowding into his personal space until they were standing nose to nose. “Do you see me having ‘accidents’ with my old flames in a well known Maker’s bar?”_

_“You don’t even go out! Besides, they wouldn’t have let a Builder into a Maker’s bar,” Dean shot back, his expression dark with a complex cocktail of rage and embarrassment and guilt. It made his freckles pop like constellations._

_“Oh, that’s real mature, Dean Winchester,” Cas sneered. He was a recluse, he knew that. Sometimes he wished he was as outgoing and well loved by his peers as Dean was, alas, if wishes were fishes, blah blah blah. “Maybe I don’t go out so I can’t have ‘accidents’”—Cas waved his fingers in front of Dean’s face like a pair of quotation marks—”that would hurt my boyfriend’s feelings!”_

_“He kissed me!” Dean batted Cas’ hands away, the movement quick in anger, but there was no force behind the slap. “I was ambushed! I never would have agreed to go for a drink it I knew this was what Ash wanted!”_

_Cas glared at Dean and pulled up the photo that was plastered all over social media on his phone. “Really? I don’t see you throwing a drink in his face to defend your honour.” He waved the phone in the air._

_“No, I punched him in the nose instead,” Dean yelled and grabbed Cas’ phone out of the air, dropping it on his workbench with a thud._

_“You—You what?”_

_“Yeah, asshole had it coming; surprised they didn’t take pictures of that too.” Dean deflated and took a step back, his fingers raking through short, brown hair to rest on the back of his neck. “Look, I’m really, really sorry. What can I do to make you believe me that I didn’t plan for this? You know I love you.”_

_Cas pulled his bottom lip between his teeth and chewed thoughtfully. His chest was still hurting from the way his heart had pounded against his ribcage when the photo popped up in his feed. He wanted to believe Dean, he really did, and Dean’s eyes held all the sincerity in the world. Cas glanced at the photo and noticed the rigidity of Dean’s shoulders for the first time. He couldn’t see Dean’s expression with the other guy’s profile in the way, but Dean’s fist was balled tightly on the table, the same fist that was currently resting against Dean’s thigh. Cas could see now that his knuckles were slightly red._

_Despite all that, Cas was still humiliated and hurt. Instead of spending the past few hours working on the blueprint of his new project, Cas had paced holes into the floor of Dean’s house while waiting for Dean to come home._

_“Well…” Cas pushed the keyboard out of the way and sat down on the desk. “There is something you can do.”_

_“Anything, babe,” Dean breathed the words like a prayer._

_“French Bulldog. Black or charcoal, bonus points if you can find one with a white patch down the chest.”_

_Dean blinked, his face frozen for a fraction of a second before melting into despair, and he groaned, “Ugh, that’s not fair.”_

_“Neither is kissing your old boyfriend.” Cas crossed his arms in that way he always did when he knew he was going to win._

_“Oh, that’s low,” Dean muttered darkly and pushed between Cas’ thighs, slotting himself in like it was the most natural place in the world for him to be. Dean leaned in close to press their foreheads together, so close that Cas could make out his own reflection in the green of Dean’s eyes. “If that’s what you want.”_

_Dean’s breath smelled of whisky. There was a hint of smoke there and Cas grinned, glad that Ash had picked a drink Dean hated; his boyfriend liked his distilled liquor strong but buttery, with little to no hint of smoke. Cas pulled back slightly to cup Dean’s cheeks and whispered against his lips, “Also, you’ll take him out for all his morning walks. And you’re coming to puppy school.” His grin morphed into a toothy smile fitting of Lucifer himself, and Dean’s defeated groan turned into an indulgent moan when Cas pulled him in for an open-mouthed kiss.  
_

 

***

It was one thing to have Cas offer his help formulating the plans, but another to watch him in action and so in his element doing it. Maybe Dean was still waiting for that other shoe to drop, waiting for Cas to pick up a pencil and draw a blank because the data transfer didn’t work after all. Maybe a minuscule part of Dean wished for that so he could once and for all convince himself that Cas was Cas and not someone else.

Dean’s mind wandered no matter how hard he tried to shackle it to the matter at hand. Cas was standing too close; his arms rested mere inches from Dean’s on the workbench as he bent over the plans. His hip bumped into Dean every time he shifted his weight from one foot to another and it would take a better man than Dean to not think about—

Dean jerked his gaze back to the blueprint spread out in front of them, his cheeks burning as he pointedly ignored the way Cas’ lips parted as he chewed on the end of his pencil, pondering—whatever it was that Cas was pondering.

“Does it have to be upright, Dean?” Cas mumbled around the pencil, his eyes glued to the giant sheet of paper spread out on the workbench.

“U-um—” Dean stuttered, his brain racing a thousand miles an hour trying to catch up. “Sorry, what?”

Sharp blue eyes turned to drill into Dean, piercing with absolutely no-nonsense. “The decontamination pod. If we have to build it up right it’ll make the vehicle too high. We’d need a wider base to—are you even listening?”

Dean jumped when Cas leaned in close, his eyebrows pinching in the faintest of frowns. No, Dean wasn’t listening; he was too damn busy tracking the pink of Cas’ lips as he spoke, and the sheen of saliva when his tongue darted out mid-sentence to lick at the corner of his mouth. Cas’ memory retention was as impressive as Dean had hoped, but the mannerisms that translated from those memories were downright uncanny, and every little thing was a jab in Dean’s ribs until he found it difficult to breathe.

There was no way he could work alongside Cas right now and not catastrophically fuck something up, putting his and Sam’s life in danger. “Sorry, Cas. I need to take five.” Without a backwards glance, Dean hurried out of the workshop, his footsteps echoing in time to the staccato of his pencil clattering to the floor.

Dean needed to get away, but the Bunker—as big as it was—wasn’t built with unnecessary space. After pacing endlessly between the kitchen and the bathroom, Dean ended up in the bedroom with his back shoved up against the side of the bed and his head resting on the mattress. He tried to swallow the panic that threatened to overwhelm him; who knew having a second chance would be so stressful?

The walls were painted in shades of orange and blue, the colours of dusk at sea. Dean stared up at the ceiling for a moment and closed his eyes, pretending that those were real clouds floating lazily in a real sky instead of a ceiling lined with screens. His breathing slowed, one breath at a time, until Dean’s mind switched off, allowing his imagination to whisk him somewhere far away; somewhere close to the ocean. He could almost taste the salt on his tongue when he inhaled deeply.

Cas wasn’t him, and that tiny constant reminder was a dagger carving into his skin every time Dean looked at him. Dean had hoped to pick up where they left off, hoped that when he finally turned the android on it would be like waking up from a nightmare to find the love of his life right there, rubbing his back while handing him a glass of water.

Only there were no back rubs and no water glasses, only a stranger wearing a familiar face; one that knew too much about his life. A stranger Dean yearned to touch and hold crushed to his chest as they fell asleep at night. Was it so wrong to do those things anyway? Cas wouldn’t say no, not when he had no qualms about sharing Dean’s bed and kissing him good-morning. A tiny voice, vicious and sharp, reminded Dean that of course Cas did all that without prompting, he never had the chance to say no, not when he was programmed to say yes based on the desires of someone he never knew.

It wasn’t right. It. Just. Wasn’t. Right.

“Hey,” Cas whispered as he dropped down next to Dean. His presence, despite everything racing through Dean’s head, was a soothing balm to the exposed nerve that was Dean’s whole existence. “Drink this.”

A warm mug slipped into Dean’s hands. Heat seeped through his skin, hitching a ride along his veins until the warmth reached his heart. Dean opened his eyes and looked—really looked—at the entity seated next to him. Cas’ legs were drawn up to his chest, his chin resting between the valley of his knees as his big, glowing eyes pinned Dean with concern.

“Why do your eyes glow like that?” Dean queried after a moment of silence.

“Um,” Cas hummed thoughtfully, one corner of his lip quirked in a smirk, “it always seems to happen when I’m...remembering things.”

“Oh yeah? What do you remember now?”

“That when you’re upset you like to think about the ocean.”

“Huh.”

“I’m not wrong, am I?” Cas’ head tilted slightly as if his body was turning into one giant question mark. It was so comical that before Dean could stop himself, he snorted. “Am I wrong?” Beneath the obvious concern in Cas’ voice was a hint of annoyance, enough to turn Dean’s snort into a sad little smile.

“No, you’re right. I was just thinking about that.”

“I know you want to get Sam and Charlie here.” Cas’ jaw was set with determination. “I’m working as quickly as I can, and we’ll get them here safe, Dean.”

If Cas thought Dean was upset over the progress on Project Build-a-fucking-tank-from-scratch, Dean was only too happy to let him believe it. He brushed the worm of guilt off his shoulder before the little bugger burrowed into his brain. “I know you are. I’m sorry I can’t help more.”

“You’re the Maker. You invent, and I implement,” Cas reassured Dean with a companionable shoulder bump that left Dean wanting more. So much more. “That’s why we make such a good team right?”

“Yeah, right.” Dean brought the mug to his lips and sipped at the hot liquid. “I thought I smelled coffee; I didn’t think we had any left.” Coffee was one of the few things Dean’s printers couldn’t duplicate, and he thought he’d demolished the last of it long ago.

“My secret stash”—Cas winked—”because you’re a thieving jerk.” Cas pushed himself to his feet and dusted the butt of his jeans before reaching out a hand to pull Dean off the floor. “Why don’t we take a break and watch a movie?”

“Wait, how old is this coffee?” Dean made a face at the cup but took another scalding gulp anyway.

“How about _Iron Man_?” Cas ignored Dean’s indignant nose wrinkle.

“Seriously?” Dean groaned, but he didn’t protest further when Cas took his mug and pushed him back onto the bed. He kicked off his shoes, along with Dean’s, and pulled them both under the covers.

 

***

Dean never understood this obsession with cult classics like the Marvel superhero movies. They were entertaining with loud explosions and, for the most part, extremely good looking villains, but it was no mystery who’d win at the end. So Dean knew that when Cas pushed play on the first of the _Iron Man_ trilogy, he wasn’t going to focus on the movie at all.

The room darkened as the movie started, AC/DC blasting from the sound system. The orange faded, replaced by the cool, blue hues of the night and a splash of psychedelic colours from the TV. It was warm under the covers with Cas so casually pressed up next to him, and Dean began to relax as he cradled the mug to his chest, taking small sips and savouring the rich, bitter flavours swirling on his tongue.

When the mug was empty he reached over to put it on the bedside table, only to turn back to Cas snuggled closer; his head rested on Dean’s chest, and his leg settled on Dean’s thigh. Dean’s lungs froze on the exhale as he glanced down at the mop of hair tickling his chin. He couldn’t see Cas’ face, but the way he melted against Dean with his fingers gripping a fistful of Dean’s shirt reminded him just how many times he’d actually seen this movie, wrapped in those arms, cocooned in these same sheets.

Cas shifted and looked up at Dean through thick lashes, his eyes a mirror of kaleidoscopic colours. He was even more beautiful than Dean remembered, and the twitch of lips and the crinkles in the corners of his eyes gave life to polaroids of Dean’s memories. His body wanted to be closer, wanted to pull Cas into him until they fused on a molecular level, and before Dean could convince himself that it was a horrible idea, he tilted Cas’ chin up to brush a kiss on those pretty lips.

The taste was different, but the velvety softness was the same, and the whisper of a soft moan in the back of Cas’ throat jolted awake parts of Dean he thought long dead. Cas rolled onto his elbow and the fleeting glow of his blue eyes temporarily washed away the mosaic of colours reflected there. Cas smiled, a slow curl of pink lips that held so many promises, and leaned in to demand a firmer kiss.

Cas had shared Dean’s bed since the day he woke up; it had been companionable, comfortable, warm. There was nothing companionable about the way Cas was pulling Dean to him at that moment, his mouth pressed against Dean’s, hot and demanding. Responding to the pull was like muscle memory, and before Dean knew it Cas was trapped beneath him, his elbows braced on either side of Cas’ head as his tongue swiped into Cas’ mouth with hungry strokes.

The movie fought valiantly to not be forgotten as Stark made his epic escape in a heap of welded metal, but Dean barely registered the explosions and flames as he lost himself in the lithe body arching up into him. Cas was grinding against him, filthy little circles that brushed the bulge between his legs against Dean’s rapidly filling cock. Dean tried not to think about the hardness, but his mind was enjoying a brisk walk down memory lane and the unbidden images of what was hidden beneath Cas’ jeans went straight to Dean’s dick.

“Y-you’re going to miss the movie,” Dean gasped into Cas’ mouth as he pulled back; he was desperately trying to clear his head.

“I’m sure Mr. Stark won’t mind,” Cas replied breathlessly before darting in to pull Dean’s lip between his teeth. “Besides, this wouldn’t be the first time we didn’t make it to the end of a movie.”

Except that it would be. With Cas.

It was the first time Dean had kissed Cas like this, the first time his cock strained to the grind of Cas’ hips. It was the first time Dean allowed himself to walk the maze in the blue of Cas’ eyes, even if it felt like he’d gotten lost in them a million times. He gazed down at Cas from this familiar angle, and his heart hammered so hard against his ribcage he was sure the damn thing would burst free any moment.

With a whispered curse Dean eased himself off Cas and rolled back against his pillow. His body protested, his skin was as tight as the front of his pants as his erection strained painfully. Damn his stupid cock-blocking conscience to hell. “I’m sorry, Cas. I just…”

“It’s okay, you know,” Cas said blandly. “I know what I’m doing. I know that I want this.”

“Do you really?” Dean winced inwardly at Cas’ nonchalance.

“I’m not mad or anything.” Cas ignored Dean’s question; he was starting to make a habit of that. “I’m programmed to do this.”

“Just—” Dean pinched the bridge of his nose as he tried to pull the spears of those last few words from his chest. They were a further reminder that he shouldn’t be doing this, not when Cas didn’t know the whole truth. “Just give me some time. To process.”

“Sure, whatever you need,” Cas purred as he stretched, languid and playful and way too cat-like for Dean’s liking. A corner of his shirt had ridden up during their brief but heavy petting session, and Cas teased a hand beneath the hem and lifted the material to show off more skin.

Dean’s heart lurched, threatened to pop right out of his chest and his mouth had gone bone dry as he watched in horrified fascination. Cas sank back into the mattress, his unruly hair a sharp contrast of dark silk against the creamy white sheets. His hips rolled to a song only he could hear as nimble fingers made short work of his button and zipper; one mischievous finger dipped beneath the front of his jeans, rested there for long exhale, and then the rest of his hand followed.

“You can process,” Cas breathed, blue eyes locked onto Dean’s like a magnet, “while I take care of myself, I guess.”

It was utterly unfair that Cas didn’t need to blink and held Dean prisoner with an unwavering stare. Dean’s gaze shifted like a panicked insect, desperately trying to break free of this imaginary confinement. It was no use; no matter how hard he tried his eyes always landed back on the sprawled form next to him. Cas lifted his hips and hooked both thumbs under the waist of his jeans. The slide of denim was torturously slow, revealing tanned skin that made Dean painfully aware just how pale he was from a lack of sun.

The elastic of Cas’ underwear stretched obscenely, caught on the soft head of his erection, before popping off to pool beneath the junction of Cas’ thighs. His cock sprung free, hot and heavy and hard as steel, and Dean swallowed as he remembered the smooth glide of that shaft against his tongue. Charlie wasn’t exaggerating when she said she’d created an exact replica for Dean.

Charlie was an Artist worth her salt, that was for damn sure.

Thoughts of his best friend evaporated like smoke when Cas dragged his tongue down his palm, filthy and hot and just the way Dean liked it, before reaching down to grip his dick in a firm, slick fist. Dean’s groan was a breathier mirror of Cas’ and when Cas palmed his cock slowly, teasingly, Dean’s pants shrunk another tight inch.

Iron Man was blowing things up in the background, each gunshot punctuating the pounding of Dean’s heart as he watched, entranced, by the blur of Cas’ hand sliding up and down his cock. Pearls of precome pooled and spilled over freely (seriously, Sam, precome?), coating his fingers and cock until everything was glistening in the artificial moonlight.

Dean’s tongue licked along his bottom lip before pulling it between his teeth. He bit down hard and desperately tried to ignore how much he wished that those were his fingers wrapped around that hard shaft. There was an odd absence of smell, but Dean’s memories filled in the gaps as he watched Cas’ fingers swipe over the head delicately with each punishing stroke. It was as if Dean could taste the saltiness of that skin on his tongue and smell the musk of _him_ permeating in the air. He wanted to dive in and swallow Cas’ cock, feel the heaviness of it on his tongue, but he didn’t for fear of shattering the illusion that it was _him_ lying next to Dean and _his_ hips stuttering as he begged for release.

“P-please...D-Dean…” Cas begged on an exhale, both hands converging between his legs as one stroked relentlessly and the other cradled his balls in a tender grip. “So close...tell me—let me come.”

“Jesus fucking Christ—” Dean cut off abruptly, dizzy with need as the floodgates to his cock were flung open by the wild look in Cas’ eyes. Blood rushed south and it hurt to move when every little shift brushed his aching erection against the cotton of his underwear; the damn thing might as well be steel wool for how sensitive Dean was. Cas was holding himself on the razor sharp edge of release, the muscles of his forearms shifted and jerked beneath smooth skin with the effort of keeping each stroke steady. Dean wanted to say no just to see those pretty eyes widen in frustration, but he wanted to see that face twist in pleasure more, so with a curt nod he groaned, “Yes, god yes, come for me.”

For a split second the world stopped turning, then come was spilling over Cas’ fingers and painting his chest. The way his name echoed through the Bunker as Cas shouted his release was Dean’s undoing as he followed him down the rabbit hole. Untouched.


	4. Chapter 4

_“Don’t you dare come,” Dean growled in his ear, his teeth grazing against the shell._

_It was Cas’ own damn fault really, teasing Dean like that. When Cas laid back and spread himself on the bed like dessert, wrapping his fingers around his own dick, he knew exactly what he was getting into; Dean’s dominant side always took a little goading and a whole lot of teasing, but it was so worth it every damn time._

_At the command, Cas screwed his eyes shut and took a small, shuddering breath. It was easier said than done when Dean’s cock—thick and heavy and so fucking hard—was brushing against his prostate with every calculated thrust. His back burned, the taut muscles quivering with fatigue as Dean bent him in half. His knees touched his ears, his calves rested on Dean’s shoulders, and his breath tickled his chest in a way that was almost alien. The position had seemed impossible when Dean suggested it, and it still felt impossible even as Dean held him folded over and drove him into the mattress._

_His chest heaved, his lungs labouring for every small sip of air. Incoherent thoughts flittered through his mind; it was impossible to focus on any one thing, and every time he tried, Dean’s cock would miraculously find that sweet spot from within to wipe away whatever cognitive abilities he had left._

_As impossibly folded as Cas was he felt safe, tucked away beneath Dean. He was warm like a thick winter blanket, his weight a constant that kept Cas grounded. Large hands wrapped around his throat, fingers pressing into his fluttering pulse. For a second the world ground to a screeching halt around him, there was nothing but silence and his head felt thick as if underwater. Cas opened his eyes slowly to meet the steady gaze of brilliant green eyes, overflowing with love and lust and dominance._

_Dean’s fingers tightened, the digits moving across Cas’ neck at a snail’s crawl. Pressure built steadily until Cas’ face tingled with liquid fire and his head felt like it was going to explode. A soft buzzing replaced the silence in his ears, and colours danced in the corners of his vision; iridescent blotches that pranced like wild fae creatures._

_Cas was vaguely aware of his straining erection, twitching and leaking, begging for release. But Dean made it difficult to focus even on that, because his dick was hot and demanding, and his come was flooding the void inside his body even as he filled in all the little cracks in Cas’ soul._

_“So good for me,” Dean cooed breathlessly even as his fingers clamped down harder; a vice that squeezed until every last thought dribbled out of him with the steady leak at the tip of his dick. “You waited like I asked. Now I’m going to give you your reward.”_

_Without warning, Dean pushed Cas’ calves off his shoulders and released his grip on his throat. Delicious cold air rushed in to inflate his lungs like a greedy balloon. Cas gasped uncontrollably, his back arching off sweat-soaked sheets even as his neck and shoulders sang in sweet relief. The buzzing in his ears disappeared, drowned out by the deafening roar of blood rushing to his brain. Every nerve in his body was on fire, and Cas was vibrating so hard he was going to burst out of his skin._

_“Come,” Dean mouthed in his ear._

_That one whispered word flashed like lightning and rumbled like thunder and before Cas registered what was happening, his release washed over him like a tropical storm. It was hot and cold and electrifying, and it left Cas drunk and hungover and wrung out all at once._

_“Shh,” Dean hushed as he pulled Cas into his chest. “I’ve got you.” And when Cas was too blissed out to respond, Dean continued, his breath warm against Cas' cheek, “I’ll take care of you.”  
_

 

***

They didn’t talk about what happened.

When Cas licked his own come off his fingers, sucking the digits one by one like candy, Dean was so overwhelmed with mixed emotions he thought he’d pass out. He didn’t though, and after a round of self-abuse in a cold shower, Dean even managed to finish the rest of the movie with Cas snuggled into his side.

The days since then had been productive, and after copious amounts of Cas’ secret stash of coffee and some heated arguments, Dean finally had the blueprints of his rescue vehicle completed and hanging on the wall behind the workbench. Assembling anything bigger than a microwave was outside of Dean’s expertise, but he was a quick study. Building his house and helping with the construction of this Bunker had given him the foundational skills he needed, but Dean still relied heavily on Cas’ Builder knowledge when they began working on the frame of what he’d started calling the tank.

Cas worked tirelessly day and night (perks of being an android), allowing Dean the luxury of sleeping each night. Between his short bursts of mandatory charging and working on the tank, Cas still somehow managed to find time to cook three meals a day for Dean. He himself didn’t waste time eating anymore after reading an old article on artificial tissue regeneration, claiming that it made no sense to combine the basic building blocks into complex food molecules, only to break it down again for absorption. Dean was smart, but this science mumbo jumbo was Sam’s forte, so he just smiled and nodded, and tried to swallow the bitter disappointment of eating alone.

Eventually Dean was going to have to pop that bottle open and pour his feelings into a cup, twirl them around and maybe even take a tentative sip. The thought of coming face to face with his emotions terrified him, but keeping them crammed inside was driving him mad, and the random boners popping up left, right, and center like he was some 14-year-old schoolboy did not help the matter one little bit.

Speaking of boners. Dean dropped his napkin in his lap and sighed. He stared miserably at his burger, courtesy of Chef Cas, and felt his chest tighten with more than a desire to consume lunch. It was becoming utterly ridiculous how much Cas’ presence affected him, even when his back was turned; it felt as if the very air around Cas was taunting him until the image of Cas’ twitching cock shooting ropes of come sent Dean running to the bathroom.

Dean picked up his burger, determined to ignore his body for as long as possible, and opened his mouth to take a bite just as Cas ambled into the kitchen carrying an old cardboard box. He plunked it on the dinner table and Dean swore as a cloud of dust flew into his mouth.

“You never told me you were into this stuff, Dean,” Cas chattered excitedly while holding up an old issues of _Science Today_.

“Where did you find that?” Dean stared at the box, “summer clothes” written in faded ink on the side, and all inappropriate thoughts of Cas spread out naked in bed evaporated.

“It was tucked in the back of the storage room,” Cas replied while pulling volumes of magazines from the box. There were at least two years worth, and Dean would know since he was the one that put them away. “I went looking for more protein blocks and stumbled across these. I thought the one under the bathroom sink was the only issue, I had no idea you were such a science nerd.”

“I’m n—” Dean bit into his cheek and swallowed the words that almost came stumbling out. Those weren’t his, and if he’d done the right thing all those days ago then Cas would know who they belonged to. Like a hidden ember buried in his soul, the ever-present guilt flared into an all-consuming flame that left Dean gasping. He knew he should tell Cas, but it’s been days since Cas had woken up. Would it really be fair at this point to rip everything Cas believed real into shreds, or would Dean be doing it only to soothe the burns of his own conscience? He watched Cas flip open the top volume and the smile that lit up his eyes was genuine. Dean convinced himself that he was doing Cas a favour by continuing this game of charades. “—I dabble. Sam’s a Scholar after all, gotta keep up.”

Dean bit into his burger and swallowed mechanically; it tasted like ash, just like everything did after the accident. He didn’t need to look into the box to know what else was in there; it was a box of his things. Sam had come by one afternoon and packed it all away, but Dean couldn’t bring himself to get rid of it, couldn’t bring himself to even look at it so he threw Rufus’ collar on top of the books and magazines and tucked it into the back of the storage room.

He meant to throw it away when his heart didn’t shatter every time he looked at the box, but the pieces only fractured further with every attempt he made. Now he was trapped down here with a box full of ghosts and a body the ghosts couldn’t possess. Dean took a deep, shuddering breath, thankful that Cas was so engrossed in his readings, and reached one trembling hand into the box. He felt around, wincing when he earned himself a papercut, and pulled out a strip of blue leather. The tag on the collar jingled as Dean smoothed a finger across the engraving.

“That’s Rufus’ collar.” Cas looked up from his magazine, traces of lingering fondness in the lines of his smile as he reached over and took the collar from Dean’s fingers. “I miss that dog.”

Another lie sat heavy on his conscience. Dean was hellbent on masking anything and everything surrounding the accident. Fabricating a memory of Rufus becoming ill and passing away felt like a small price to pay at the time when Dean thought he could bring everything back to the way it was. The web spun out of control when nothing happened according to plan and Dean suddenly felt trapped, unable to escape the cocoon of dishonesty that was suffocating him.

“Maybe, if we get the chance to, we should get another pet,” Cas suggested. “Maybe a cat this time; they’re so independent.”

“But you love dogs,” Dean replied, a hint of confusion swimming just below the surface.

“I know, they’re awesome and I loved Rufus to bits, but we could never be spontaneous and just get away, you know?”

“Yeah...but you’re not a big fan of traveling too far from home.”

“I remember not enjoying it.” Cas shrugged. “But now I’m curious. I’ve been doing so much reading when I’m charging, I want to see the world in person. Once it’s safe to go outside of course.”

“But I just figured we’d get another dog...” Dean trailed off stiffly.

“Why are you so set on getting a dog?” Cas questioned. “If my memories are correct you didn’t even want Rufus.”

“That’s not true,” Dean retorted indignantly. “I changed my mind, eventually.”

“Right,” Cas crossed his arms and squared his shoulders, his stance as defensive as Dean sounded. “So you can change, but god forbid I have an original thought, right?”

“That’s not what I meant, Cas.”

“You know my interests can change too. Just like I remember enjoying being a Builder, but I’m also really loving the science mags.” Cas pulled the box closer and dug around further, pushing aside stacks of comics and architecture books whose pages were yellow despite Sam’s attempts at preserving them. “Like I said, I’ve been doing a lot of reading, and as fun as building things with my hands is, I want to learn about the stuff my body is made out of more.”

Dean pushed his barely touched food away as something wretched settled in his gut. The AI was supposed to learn and evolve; growth with experience was not only expected but encouraged. Dean knew this; yet watching Cas bloom in front of his eyes, growing beyond his core programming, was more upsetting than Dean cared to admit. His code worked, maybe a little too well, and Cas was shifting away from the foundation of his personality at a disturbing rate.

Cas studied Dean closely, adopting that same quizzical tilt of the head that Dean had come to learn so well. Dean plastered a smile on his face, the muscles around his lips frozen even as he willed them to move. Cas pushed from his chair and lowered himself delicately onto Dean’s lap, his arms slipped around Dean’s shoulders, a slight weight shrouding Dean in comfortable warmth. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“I’m just tired,” Dean lied as he leaned his head against Cas’ solid chest. There was no heartbeat there.

“I’ll work on the tank some more later tonight, not like I need the sleep anyway,” Cas murmured into Dean’s hair, his breath warm against his scalp. “It’s been a few days since we watched a movie together.”

Dean’s cheeks burned from the memories of their last movie together. He wanted to finish the tank as soon as possible, but the sudden onslaught of painful memories left him drained to the bone. Cas was a warm, solid weight in his lap, and the idea of curling up under the blankets together appealed to Dean in more ways than one, even if he had to sit through all three _Captain America_ movies again. “Sounds good, Cas. What will it be, Captain America or The Avengers today?”

“Um, I feel like I’ve seen those movies, a lot.” Cas tapped one long finger against his bottom lip, his eyes flashing between one blink and the next. “Maybe we can watch something a little different. I read about this one the Net the other day, _Playing It Cool_? I grabbed it in case we wanted to watch it.”

“What’s it about?”

“It’s a romcom about this guy that doesn't believe in love.” Cas smiled and planted a kiss on Dean’s forehead. “A little romance and a little comedy will do you good.”

Dean forced his grimace into a lopsided grin, nodding and making a show of getting up to clear away the dishes. He shooed Cas out of the kitchen to set up the movie and barely had time to hide the brimming tears, threatening to spill with each shuddering breath. Dean leaned over the sink, the counter holding him up stoically as his shoulders shook; he was desperately trying to swallow back jagged sobs.

How foolish was he in thinking Cas just needed to improvise until Dean fixed him, until Dean got him back on the right track—destination Dean’s Perfect Little Slice of Heaven. Cas didn’t need his help filling in the gaps, didn’t need someone messing with his programming so he could become the perfect puppet; instead he was adapting, moving forward with the will of his own mind, and learning to live like a real person.

He was becoming more of a stranger every day, leaving behind the ghost of someone that Dean used to know.

 

***

“Can you pass me the quarter inch wrench?” Dean wiggled his fingers as he reached out from under the tank toward the pair of knees next to him. A pause stretched into unmistakable silence; Dean frowned and waited, but no wrench appeared in his hand. He pushed himself out from under the vehicle, the string of curses forgotten on the tip of his tongue as he blinked into the overhead lights. Blue eyes bore into him. They weren’t glowing, but the unblinking, scrutinizing stare got under Dean’s skin like an itch he couldn’t reach. “Cas?”

The android sank back on his haunches, the welding torch held loosely in one hand as he dropped the welding mask to the floor. “Hey, you want to take a break?”

“Again? We just had lunch like an hour ago, Cas.” Dean frowned.

“You’re working yourself into the ground.” Cas studied the torch intently, avoiding Dean’s eyes. “You don’t want to tire yourself out.”

“We’re so close,” Dean rolled onto his side and rummaged around his toolbox, looking for the wrench. “At this rate, we’ll be done late tomorrow, and I can be outta here the morning after.” Dean breathed a soft “ah ha” when he found the wrench he needed, and chided himself for not keeping his tools more organized.

“Dean, I just feel—”

“Cas, c’mon man. Let’s just get back to work okay?” Dean cut Cas off curtly, barely masking the annoyance in his voice.

“We can’t finish this, Dean,” Cas blurted.

“The fuck?” Dean nearly brained himself on the tank as he sat up abruptly, sinking dread waging war on curiosity in the pit of his stomach. “Why?”

“It’s too dangerous for you to go out there.” Cas laid down the torch and made to push himself to his feet. Dean’s hand shot out and grabbed Cas’ wrist, his knuckles bone-white as his fingers dug into warm flesh.

“What are you talking about? Where’s this coming from?”

“There’s been a series of break-in’s in Sam’s neighbourhood.” Cas’ gaze darted, never stopping long enough to be trapped in a staring contest.

“What? I haven’t seen anything of that sort.” Dean’s frown deepened and his fingers squeezed so tight that Cas couldn’t hide his grimace as he tried to pull away.

“I’ve been—I’ve been filtering your connection,” Cas muttered, his voice no louder than the flutter of a butterfly’s wing.

“You’ve been what?”

“Filtering your content, Dean,” Cas said a little louder, blue eyes challenging Dean in an indignant glare. “Last time you read about some stabbing in that neighbourhood, you freaked out and didn’t eat for two days.”

“Yes, Cas, and that’s my fucking choice!” Dean shouted. Anger clashed against indignance, neither willing to back down. “You can’t do that! He’s my brother!”

“My job is to protect you!”

“You got no right, Cas. No. Right.” Dean shoved Cas away, his fingers trembling as he scrubbed them down his face, dust and dirt and engine grease be damned. He felt dirty, betrayed, and violated in a way he’d never experienced. Words backed up in his throat like rush hour traffic. He opened his mouth, wanted to scream and shout, but those same words jostling to get out just moments ago now sat frozen on the tip of his tongue.

“You created me to look after you.”

“No, I made you to—” Dean’s mouth clamped shut like an oyster guarding its pearl. The reason seemed so asinine now; a small selfish need for a small selfish man. Dean turned his back on Cas, his hands buried in his hair pulling until the roots burned across his scalp like wild fire.

“No? Then what did you make me for?” Cas crowded into Dean, forcing him around and trapping him between his arms as his fingers dug into Dean’s shoulders. “Why did you put these things in my head? You gave me these...moments of intimacy, but when I try to act on them, you push me away. What am I doing wrong that I’m not even good enough to be the walking dildo you created me to be?”

Dean flinched as if slapped, Cas’ words plunging into him deeper than any knife and he couldn’t even scream through the pain, didn’t deserve the relief that would come from verbalizing it. “God–no! That’s–you’re–Jesus Christ, Cas, you’re not a fucking walking dildo!” Dean deflated, all the fight flowed out of him in a steady stream until he was weak like an over-drained battery.

Cas cradled Dean’s cheeks with a tenderness Dean didn’t know he possessed. “Then what am I Dean? What am I to you?” His voice was incredibly soft, shrouded in doubt.

“You’re”—Dean swallowed the lump threatening to choke him—“You’re my Cas.”

Cas studied him for a heartbeat longer, his expression softening as if Dean’s answer was enough. Cas closed the gap between them, his lips buttery soft as he brushed them against the corner of Dean’s mouth, like understanding and acceptance. Dean leaned into the kiss, his eyes fluttering closed, and allowed himself to simply bask in the moment.


	5. Chapter 5

_The duffel bag bounced against his hip with every step, the rhythmic thud, thud, thud a constant reminder that Cas was walking into what was probably the biggest commitment he’d ever made in a relationship._

_The fact that he was even in a relationship with Dean was crazy, and although the sex had been mind-blowing and the dates romantic to the point of cliché, Cas never expected Dean to pull him to the closet one day and push his own stuff to the side, emptying out half of the space just for him._

_Cas grinned to himself, remembering the blush that had crawled up from Dean’s neck to sit prettily in his cheeks, his splash of freckles made that much darker against the rosy tint of his skin. Dean was a playboy through and through, and he was smooth like peanut butter when he turned on his charm, but when it came to things that really mattered to him, Dean would trip over his words like a nervous schoolboy. It was these endearing little things about Dean that drew Cas to him like a moth to the flame._

_If death was inevitable, Cas would gladly perish in the flame that was Dean Winchester._

_The door to the Bunker slid open and Cas let himself in, welcomed by a chorus of soft beeps from Dean’s arsenal of machines and computers. The workshop, sensing his arrival (via DNA tagged sensors, Dean’s idea of course), flicked on the lights one by one until the room was awash with succulent hues of warm colours; Cas closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, the taste of home on his tongue as he slowly emptied his lungs._

_The main room was Dean’s playground, but over the months Cas had left tiny pieces of himself strewn about until their things were as intertwined as their lives. On the far side of the room on the computer desk, his copy of “Garden Cities of To-Morrow”—the pages yellow with love—peaked out from under Dean’s blueprints for his latest invention. His coffee mug touched handles with Dean’s, innocent yet intimate, and Cas’ small cactus waved at him from beside Dean’s state of the art monitors. The tough little plant was the only one Cas could talk Dean into keeping. Dean didn’t want to be responsible for “plant murder” when he inevitably forgot to take care of it._

_Cas grinned at the memory and turned to the wall of photographs on his right. He had started putting photos up since their first date until the entire wall behind the workbench was a giant mosaic of their lives together. Dragging a finger across the long table (the damn thing was so big it took three guys to put it together), Cas followed the path paved by old-school polaroids, reliving each captured memory as if it had happened yesterday._

_It wasn’t until he reached the end of the bench that Cas finally glanced down at the wooden surface. It was spotless, as was Dean’s tools as they sat in silent slumber, labeled and organized. Cas had loved watching Dean arrange his workbench the day it was finished, fascinated by Dean’s meticulous system as he lovingly laid them down as if every tool was a small extension of himself._

_There wasn’t much that Cas didn’t love about Dean, but watching him work had to be Cas’ favourite thing in the world._

_The bedroom beckoned to him from the end of the hallway like an earnest lover, and when Cas finally stepped into it, the closet stood invitingly open. Empty hangers hung on the hanging rod, waiting expectantly for Cas to empty his bag and drape the clothes along with his heart into the private space that now belonged to the both of them. The Bunker was his home too now, and if Cas’ chest grew a little warmer and the corners of his eyes moistened just a touch with tears at that thought, that was a secret between him and the hangers; the hangers would never tell._  

 

***

“Good morning, Dean,” Cas murmured against Dean’s ear, his lips slightly chapped but velvety warm as they brushed Dean’s cheek. Even though he’d stopped working on the tank, Cas didn’t come back to share Dean’s bed at night, opting to use the extra hours to read and learn instead. However, that did not stop Cas from coming in to claim his good-morning kiss. The habit sat sour on Dean’s tongue like cheap wine, but he couldn’t bring himself to put an end to it. Despite everything, Dean was still desperately hanging onto every little piece of the past.

Dean’s lips curled into a faint little smile as he chased Cas’ lips with a kiss of his own. “Morning, Cas,” he replied while reaching for the razor and soap. He had ran out of shaving cream a week ago, and although the soap lather barely soothed the sting of cold blade against soft skin, it was better than nothing.

Cas watched Dean through the mirror, his uncanny blue eyes following Dean’s every move as he rubbed soap between his palms and applied the lather to his cheeks. When Dean picked up the razor from the edge of the sink, Cas plucked it right from his slippery fingers and dropped the razor into the trash can.

“Hey! I don’t have many of those left,” Dean protested, “and I’d really rather not shave with an exacto knife.”

“Then stop shaving.” Cas shrugged and slipped his arms around Dean’s waist, pulling him back until Dean was nestled into his chest. “I like you with a little scruff.”

“Well, when you put it like that,” Dean sighed and turned in Cas’ arms, their noses barely touching. He ran a calloused finger along Cas’ jaw, feeling the smoothness of his artificial flesh that would never see a five o’clock shadow, and leaned in to plant a soapy kiss against the corner of Cas’ mouth. “I guess I can grow a beard.”

Cas shifted just enough to pull Dean’s bottom lip between his teeth, his tongue sweeping along the captured flesh before pulling back and pondering, “Hmm, I think a goatee would look fabulous on you.”

“I’m gonna need a razor for that.” Dean licked along the inside of his lip where it throbbed with a pleasant tingle. “Now let me finish brushing my teeth so you can feed me some breakfast.”

 

***

It was hours before Dean came up for air. He should be tired, fatigued even, judging by the grit beneath his eyelids and the burn in his forearms, but he felt elated as satisfaction smoldered like embers in his (hungry) belly.

The tank was finally complete. In the end he caved and the decontamination chamber sat sideways in the cargo compartment. Crawling into it for Sam would be a pain in the ass, but a smaller chassis saved Dean at least a day’s worth of welding, so Sam could deal with the cramped space. After all it was his own fault for growing so damn tall.

He pulled the welding mask off and ran greasy fingers through sweat drenched hair. His tank top was equally soaked and not much white fabric was spared from a smear of dirt or engine grease. His knees ached, and when Dean checked himself, his hands on his hips, there were two distinctive flesh-coloured spots peeking through holes on the knees of his jeans. Dean was glad Cas wasn’t in the workshop; if he was he’d be nagging Dean about wearing his mechanics gloves and knee pads, and interrupting him with threats of bodily harm if Dean didn’t stop and eat something.

Speaking of which, where on earth was Cas?

Dean stowed away the welding torch with care—after all it would be infinitely troublesome to replace now—along with the mask, but he left the rest of his tools where they lay; it was just too much effort to put them away. With one last look at the fruit of nearly two week’s worth of hard labour, Dean wiped his grimy fingers on the back of his jeans and went in search for his android companion.

He found Cas sitting in bed with his knees tucked beneath his chin, his nose buried in yet another issue of _Science Today_.

“Hey,”—Dean stopped just short of the edge of the bed, careful to not dirty his sheets—“I got something to show you.”

“Can it wait, Dean?” Cas replied softly without looking up. “I think I found the article your brother published about the organic makeup of my meat suit.”

Dean winced at the callous reference to Cas’ body. Neither of them were delusional about what Cas was, but Dean never thought of him as just a robot.

“Well, if what I’m about to show you works, you’ll get to meet the author in person.”

Cas glanced up from the tattered magazine, but instead of the excitement Dean had hoped for, he found himself withering under disapproving scrutiny; it sucked the joy right out of him, leaving him feeling small.

“I thought we talked about this, Dean,” Cas chided. “It’s just too dangerous for you to go out there by yourself.”

“I never agreed to anything,” Dean retorted, his arms crossing defensively, “and there’s no way in hell I’m leaving Sammy and Charlie to fend for themselves.”

“They survived this long.”

“That Bunker was built with the expectation that help from the outside would eventually come!”

“I know that,” Cas said with infinite patience, “but your safety is my number one concern. The law states clearly I can’t let you hurt yourself.”

“The law also forbids you from stopping me,” Dean growled, glaring down at Cas’ impassive expression before storming out of the bedroom.

Dean hated doing that. He hated reminding Cas—and himself—that despite everything Cas was still just a robot, something Dean built and programmed and therefore was ultimately under his control. Dean wanted him to be so much more than that and had even fooled himself into thinking that Cas was more than just a tool, but how much of the AGI was learned, how much programmed, and really, how much of it was real?

What was even real?

The truth burnt a hole in his chest like acid. Everything about Cas was artificial, from the titanium-nickel alloy skeleton to the test-tube grown organic matter that was his skin. His brain, his mind, the microprocessor where his intelligence existed as 0s and 1s and electrical currents was the biggest lie of all. Cas was the result of a broken, desperate man too afraid of the emptiness of his own head; the product of a coward that dreamt of living in the past because the future was too damn terrifying.

Charlie breathed such life into the body—right down to the vivid blue of his eyes—and Sam’s organic tissue turned that artistic vision into something tangible. Fuck them for making it so easy to forget that Cas wasn’t a person, that he wasn’t real.

If was foolish to think he could find solace in something he’d created. He was no God, no Creator, he was just a silly Maker with grandeurous dreams and a ridiculous fear of being alone. In the end, Dean was always going to be alone. The thought speared through him, turning his insides into ice.

The tank sat silently in the middle of his workshop, looking more like a metal coffin. Dean leaned over and rubbed a thumb against the reinforced windshield, wiping away a smidgen of sticky grease. A hand clamped around his wrist, spinning him around and the next thing Dean knew Cas was crowding into his personal space, pushing him back until his boot rolled on a stray screwdriver and brought them both crashing to the floor. The fall knocked the wind out of Dean, but Cas simply pushed himself up to sit astride Dean’s stomach, his blue eyes glowing ominously.

“I can stop you,” Cas whispered, his voice hoarse with suppressed anger, “and I will.”

Dean bucked against the weight pinning him down. “Back off, Cas.”

“Or what, Dean?” Cas leaned in close until their foreheads touched. “You’ll turn me off? Reboot me?”

“Maybe I will.” Dean would never act on that threat. Because it would be wrong. Because it would be like murder. Because Dean would be alone all over again.

Cas’ eyes widened in shock, the blue glowing so intensely it tinted the room. Dean swallowed but didn’t avert his gaze. The laws of robotics, the very laws upon which Cas’ entire existence was built, would not allow him to harm Dean. He repeated those laws in his head, a mantra to keep him from wilting under the murderous stare from a creature that could snap his neck without breaking a sweat.

The unblinking stare had him pinned as much as Cas’ weight, and Dean couldn’t help but feel like there was more than just anger simmering beneath the glare. The corners of Cas’ lips twitched and the stubborn set of his jaw was one Dean was too familiar with; he was hurting.

Cas blinked, once, and the opalescent glow dimmed until they were just blue eyes again. Cas’ eyes. His brows pinched and the anguish and hurt behind those artificial orbs knocked what little air was left out of Dean’s lungs. They were too damn real, and Dean wasn’t ready to deal with that.

“You wouldn’t,” Cas stated but his voice wavered as if a worm of doubt had burrowed into his confidence.

Something worried at Dean. Some small, illogical thing picking at the edges of his brain, but he was too tense, too focused, too overwhelmed by the weight pushing air out of his lungs to let his mind wander. And then all ability to think vanished when Cas leaned down and closed his lips over Dean’s.

It was a desperate kiss. Hungry, needy, as if Cas relied on the very oxygen from Dean’s lungs to live. Cas’ lips quivered, uncertainty translating into action as he licked into Dean’s mouth, cleansing him of the dirty implications of his words.

Dean laid there—eyes wide and chest heaving—as he processed the taste on the tip of his tongue. “Cas...” he gasped.

“God, Dean,” Cas blurted. “I don’t know what to make of this burning in my chest when I think about losing you. I’m...I’m...”

“Afraid,” Dean finished for Cas, the word sat heavy between them. “I never programmed fear into you, or anxiety or panic...how?”

“I don’t know,” Cas repeated, his brows furrowed in confusion. “I just know that I’ve got you, Dean,” Cas murmured, his breath warm against Dean’s cheek. “I’ll take care of you.”

The words teased at the frayed edges of long forgotten memories. Cas’ lips were on him once more, this time gentle and languid as he explored Dean’s mouth like he was tasting it for the first time. The fluttered remembrance slipped away when Dean melted into the kiss, surrendering himself completely. Cas wanted to take care of him, wanted to love him, and Dean was tired of resisting. His fingers traced along Dean’s sides, his mouth sucking the very breath from his lungs again and again.

The hands exploring Dean were curious, their movements hesitant but earnest as the smooth pads slipped beneath Dean’s tank top to graze against bare skin. Blunt nails that would never grow dragged up his torso to scrape against Dean’s pert nipples, and when Dean gasped in surprise—the sound lapped up by an eager tongue—Cas’s fingers grew more confident.

Sensation overwhelmed him until he was one raw, exposed nerve. Every lick of Cas’ tongue, every nip of teeth, and every warm, shallow breath was a sharp reminder that there was nothing familiar about Cas; the taste of his skin, the touch of his lips, and the slow grind of hips, it was all new and exciting and Dean hated himself for not seeing it sooner. He was so blinded by the ghost of something he tried desperately to hang onto, that he completely missed what was right in front of him, wanting him and wanting to love him.

Dean scrabbled at Cas’ hands with desperate fingers, his back arched off the hard, concrete floor. His chest was on fire and he was rapidly losing the ability to draw air into his lungs. It was hard to think through the pain, even harder to comprehend the pleasure that accompanied it. Cas growled, the sound foreign and frightening and so sinfully arousing it went straight to his dick, and Dean could only gasp when Cas’ teeth sank into his neck.

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” Cas growled possessively into Dean’s skin even as his lips worked a wet cluster of biting kisses along the teeth marks.

Dean’s soft whimpers echoed around the spacious workshop, every high-pitched whine a chink in the armour he’d built around himself lest the pain and anguish consumed him. He could feel the walls around him crumbling, and for the first time since Cas came online, Dean was brave enough to admit to himself that Cas wasn’t just someone else’s shadow.

Nimble fingers tugged on the button on his jeans and yanked down the zipper with terrifying force. Dean raised his hips, giving Cas as much of a helping hand as his muddled brain could muster, and raised himself onto his elbows to watch as Cas pulled down his pants.

Vivid blue eyes glanced down at Dean’s straining arousal before dragging lazily along his body, lingering on the vee of his hips and the taut lines of his stomach before moving up to study Dean’s face. Dean blushed as he followed Cas’ gaze; he wasn’t in the best shape since his self-imposed exile to the Bunker, but the hungry flick of Cas’ tongue was a hot breath reigniting the embers of Dean’s vanity.

“So beautiful.” Cas’ fingers traced delicately down Dean’s abs, a trail of goosebumps marking the inevitable convergence of the digits as they brushed against coarse curls. Dean’s dick twitched with anticipation as the fingers drew near, and he could barely hear the rasp of his own laboured breathing over the erratic pounding of his heart.

Cas’s fingers were warm and smooth when they closed around the straining shaft. Dean choked back a sob as dry heat wrapped around him like burning flames. Cas’ hand felt familiar and alien all at once; the warm grip was the same, but the twist of his wrist and the drag of each finger over the sensitive head was a brand new rhythm that had Dean begging embarrassingly quickly.

He struggled to stay on his elbows, watching the head of his cock disappear beneath each stroke, but his arms shook and gave out even as his body coiled with tension. Dean collapsed, his head bouncing against the concrete floor as his hips snapped up to meet every stroke. Cas’ grip was getting more slick by the second, burning friction soothed by Dean’s leaking cock until precome oozed between Cas’ fingers. Cas’ mouth was on him again, this time teasing the smooth patch of skin over his hip.

Dean turned his head to bite into a balled fist, his eyes flying open when Cas bit into the meat of his inner thigh. A pile of old polaroids under the heavy workbench caught Dean’s attention and guilt like liquid fire ripped through him. He couldn’t see the photographs, not that he needed to as every single moment captured was burnt into Dean’s memory like a brand.

The man with Dean in those polaroids was a memory that lived on through Cas. But he was just that, a memory.

Shame chased away the warmth in his gut, replacing it with a leaden weight, but it did nothing to dampen his arousal because this was Cas on top of him; Cas’ fingers dragging along his shaft, Cas’ palm rubbing against the pulsing vein, and Cas’ thumb swiping across the sensitive head to drag Dean drunkenly over the edge. Rope after rope of sticky release splashed across Dean’s stomach and chest as his body curled in on itself, every muscle taut like the string of a bow under tension.

The usual afterglow of orgasm dimmed when a coldness pressed against his chest. Dean felt limp, his limbs like jello even as Cas gathered him into his arms and picked him up like Dean was the most precious thing in the world. He didn’t deserve the gentle kiss planted on his forehead nor did he deserve the tender grip as Cas carried him to his bedroom.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow Dean would fix all of this, but today he wanted—needed—to feel the warmth of Cas wrapped around him, so he allowed guilty fingers to slip around Cas’ neck and snuggled close.


	6. Chapter 6

_“You, me, Friday night; we’re going out,” Dean grunted as he squatted down to pluck the screwdriver out of Cas’ hand, forcing Cas to look up from his spot beneath the workbench. The solid wood surface was held in place with minimum support and Cas had really hoped to secure all the brackets so the damn thing wouldn’t fall and give him a concussion._

_“I’m busy Friday,” Cas replied dryly and pulled out another screwdriver from his belt before going back to tightening the abandoned screw. Dean sighed and eased himself down next to Cas, and with his stolen screwdriver, began securing a second bracket._

_“Doing what?”_

_“My job? This Bunker isn’t going to build itself, Dean.”_

_“Yeah, but, since you’re working for me”—Dean turned and cocked an eyebrow at Cas—“that makes me your boss, and I’m giving you the night off.”_

_“I don’t go out with my bosses,” Cas retorted, his eyes rolling so hard he was sure he’d pulled something._

_“Not the tune you were singing last night,” Dean teased. Cas felt his cheeks burn and gave the screw one last pointed twist before sticking his elbow into Dean’s side._

_It was no secret to the crew that Cas and Dean had been intimate since the project started. In fact, it was thanks to a fateful gust of wind and a rather flirty towel that landed Cas the best lay of his life the first time he met Dean._

_Cas gripped the brace and yanked on it, when the metal didn’t give he gave it a satisfied little tap before turning to Dean. “You know I’m not really the partying type.”_

_“Yeah, I know,” Dean began as he took an intense and sudden interest on the underside of the workbench, his eyes glued to the surface instead of looking at Cas as he continued, “I want to take you out on a date.”_

_They slept together, a lot, even if very little sleeping actually happened, but this was something completely different. Going on a date changed everything, and Cas felt icy cold fear settle in the pit of his stomach when he dared to process the meaning of it all._

_But there was also a tingling of excitement and a want that he didn’t allow himself to dwell on until, well, now._

_“You mean, like a date date?” Cas questioned._

_“Y-yeah. Like get dressed up and eat fancy food kinda date.” Dean worried at his bottom lip so hard Cas was afraid he’d draw blood. “I’ll even shave.”_

_“Oh, that’s smooth, you know how much I love it when you’re all clean-shaven.” Cas reached up to take Dean’s cheeks into his hands, Dean melted into his touch, the stubble on his cheeks scraping against Cas’ palm. Dean’s eyes were downcast, his rose-tinged skin warm, his pink lips parted as the tip of his tongue darted out to moisten dry lips. Cas didn’t see this side of Dean often, but when he did, when he saw the genuine, bashful side of him, Cas felt like the luckiest man alive. If only the rest of the world could see Dean like this, but then again, maybe it was best that they didn’t, because Cas rather liked the idea that this blushing idiot was all his._

_“Well, if you're promising a night of fine dining and good company then I guess I can come,” Cas sighed happily, “after all, my boss did just give me the night off.” He couldn’t help the smile curling his lips and inching its way into the corners of his eyes when Dean beamed at him.  
_

 

***

Dean woke to the smell of coffee and a dry itch behind his eyelids. He’d been crying, that much he remembered, but he couldn’t recall when he fell asleep. Dean dug the heels of his palms against the sockets, trying to rub the itch and sleep from his eyes, and followed his nose out of bed and into the kitchen. Cas was hunched over at the dinner table, chin resting on his fists, a magazine spread open between his elbows. He looked up as Dean entered and smiled weakly, uncertainty just below the surface of his clear, blue eyes.

“Morning, Dean.” It was Cas’ usual greeting, but there was no kiss, no brush of finger against Dean’s stubbles.

“...Cas,” Dean began, “I’m—”

“There’s breakfast in the printer,” Cas interrupted.

“—Uh, thanks.” Dean pulled a plate from the cabinet and transferred the omelette over with his bare fingers. The eggs were still hot, but Dean barely felt the steam’s valiant attempt to blister his skin, his mind racing, trying to put together the right words to set things straight. He owed that much to Cas, and he owed it to himself.

Dean picked up his plate and slid into the empty seat across from the Cas. The android had gone back to his article, his arms spread out on the table as he leaned over to devour the words. Dean sat slouched in his seat and watched, enjoying what could be the last of their companionable silence together. The sweep of Cas’ hair across his forehead as Cas tilted his head had Dean mesmerized, and as if his body had a mind of its own, Dean reached over to brush the stray strands out of Cas’ eyes.

Cas glanced up through thick lashes, the blue of his eyes stealing the very breath from Dean’s lungs as if for the first time. Dean’s hand hovered, frozen for the blink of a heartbeat before tracing along the jut of Cas’ cheek bones, fingertips dotting tender kisses against supple skin; so perfect and smooth. Cas swallowed, the bob of his Adam’s apple breaking Dean out of his trance and Dean cleared his throat, his cheeks burning as if he’d been caught stealing cookies from the cookie jar.

“How come you chose to be a Maker?” Cas broke the silence.

Dean’s eyes widened in surprise. “I like to make stuff, and I like working with my hands.”

“But you’re incredibly smart, Dean.”

“Uh, yeah”—Dean pointed at the food printer and quirked a cocky eyebrow—”I know.”

Cas rolled his eyes and this time his smile was real; it was breathtaking. “Yeah exactly, so why a Maker? You could have been anything. Artist, or perhaps even a Scholar?”

“Yeah, but it’s different.”

“They create things and they discover, and it would have been so much more prestigious.”

“I don’t care about all that. They create and discover, but they don’t invent. They don’t get their hands dirty—”

“Like a Builder?” Cas cut in with undisguised prejudice.

Dean recoiled even as rage boiled beneath his skin, red-hot and without warning. “Excuse me?”

“Why did you make me a Builder? I’m an android, my AI is perfect, you could have had me learn anything.” Cas threw his hands up in the air, irritated. “Why limit me to manual labour?”

“What the—you don’t know what you’re talking about, Cas,” Dean gritted, his hands shaking despite his fingers digging painfully into his thighs.

“I know what’s in my head, Dean,” Cas spat, “what you put there, and it’s all just this silly love for old buildings, stupid cult movies and, and, and, dogs.”

“Cas, stop.”

“There’s all this stuff in my head that’s totally irrelevant, pointless details of a life I never had—”

“Cas, please—”

“—and then there are these blank spots, chunks of...whatever you put in there that’s missing, and I’m left filling in the blanks the best I can—”

“Cas—”

“—but I just can’t, because there’s no logic to this. I’m never going to build a house, or a bridge, and I don’t know why you needed to make up details about us. Seems a bit conceited don’t you think? If you wanted me to fall in love with you—”

“Cas, shut up!” Dean bellowed, his voice echoing like thunder in the small kitchen. Cas opened his mouth, but Dean couldn’t bear listening to another word. He moved as if possessed, his fist a blur as it connected with Cas’ jaw with a deafening crack. Silence descended abrupt and suffocating, like ashes it settled into every little nook and cranny of the tiny room.

There was a ringing in Dean’s ears born of this silence, it whirled and twirled in his skull, growing louder with each merry-go-round until it was all Dean could do to not plug his ears with his hands and scream. His knuckles throbbed, a blue flame fueled by anger flowed through his veins to set his heart on fire.

“That’s real low, Dean,” Cas hissed as he ran the tip of his tongue along the split in his lip. “You know I can’t hit you back.”

Dean’s mouth opened but there were no words. He should apologise, just like he should tell Cas the truth, like he should have wiped him and started fresh from the very beginning. Cas was right, Dean was a coward, and after that little display of aggression, he could add abusive asshole to the list too.

His vision swam as the kitchen walls loomed over him, threatening to crush him until every last breath was squeezed from his lungs. The omelette—cold and forgotten—sat staring at him, judging him in its soft, pillowy righteousness. Dean withered under that judgement and couldn’t escape fast enough as he ran out of the kitchen.

Footsteps that weren’t his echoed down the hall. Dean bolted into the bedroom and slid down the side of the bed, facing the wall so he didn’t have to face Cas as he skidded into the room after him. The bedroom was awash with sunlight, the crystal clear blue sky a mockery of the pot of misery stirring in Dean’s stomach.

Cas crouched next to Dean, his forearms resting lightly on the inside of each thigh. Dean plucked at a loose thread on the bottom of his t-shirt, his eyes downcast. “God, Dean, I’m sorry I didn’t—I wasn’t—it’s not that—” Cas groused and plunked himself down next to Dean. ”—you’re important to me.”

Dean studied Cas’ boots; the left toe had a small scuff mark that wasn’t there before. Those boots belonged to Cas now, as did the jeans he was wearing and the blue button-down shirt. Everything about the android screamed someone different—Cas—from the distinctive tilt of his head to the twist of his wrist as his fingers wrapped around Dean’s cock. Fresh guilt slithered through his veins to sit heavy in his heart, turning his tongue to wood as he tried to speak. “I’m only important to you because I made you that way.”

“Yeah, sure, at first maybe,” Cas scoffed, “but I think you’re underestimating your own software, Dean. I’m learning, and I feel.”

“No, you feel because the program…” Dean swallowed, “the program was written based on real emotions.”

“I would assume as much—”

“No, not real like it’s a real emotion, but real real.” Dean chanced a glance at Cas and quickly swung his gaze back down to his shoes. The pounding of his heart began to crescendo with each hesitant breath. Dean closed his eyes, leaned back against the bed, and continued. “His name was Jimmy.”

Behind the translucent darkness of his eyelids, Dean strained for a sound. The room was deathly quiet save for the inhale and exhale of his bated breath. His palms were sweaty as they rested against rough denim of his jeans, the room was the perfect ambient temperature, as it always had been, yet a shiver slithered down his spine that left him dreading.

“What do you mean?” Cas demanded, his voice soft as a ghost’s caress.

“You...your memories are real. They belonged to a man named Jimmy. Jimmy Novak-Winchester.” Dean tripped over the name; it had been so long since he’d said that name in full, so long since he’d dared to remember.

“Winchester,” Cas whispered, “as in...you were—we were married?”

“Yeah, Jimmy and I were married.”

“Then...” Cas trailed off as if he already knew the answer.

“He died.” Dean swallowed the lump in his throat even as his eyes stung with unshed tears. “He went to pick up Rufus from the vet but…”

“Rufus? I thought he was too sick and didn’t make it.” Cas narrowed his eyes, suspicion hovering just out of sight.

“I planted that, I didn’t want you to know about the accident—”

“Jesus Christ.”

“—so we could just continue where we left off,” Dean finished lamely.

“You planted—what else did you plant in my head?” Cas stared at his hands, his fingers trembling. “Do I look like him? Am I just a clone of your dead husband?”

“You were supposed to be.”

“For the love of—” Cas grabbed fistfuls of hair and yanked in anguish, his eyes blazing with liquid blue fire. “Everything I know, everything I feel, it’s all him?”

“Cas, please,” Dean begged as he reached for Cas, “it’s not like that anymore, you’re you; you’re Cas.”

Cas recoiled from Dean’s outstretched hands, the mere inches between them a gaping chasm Dean didn’t know how to cross. “Don’t touch me. Don’t you fucking touch me. All this time you made me believe I had a choice. The morning kisses, the lingering touch. The things I did, the things I did to you.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean pleaded as he caught himself reaching for Cas once more. The ground was shifting and crumbling beneath him, only this time there was no one there to catch him. “I messed up, and I see that now. You’re not Jimmy, you never were.”

“Why didn’t it work?”

“There was an earthquake, it damaged the memory upload, you weren’t even supposed to come online.” Dean pushed himself to his feet and paced alongside the bed. “When I found you, you were already...you. You’d given yourself a name, and now...I need you, Cas, I love you.” The words slipped out, unwitting and unfettered. Dean stopped dead in his tracks, his tongue sat numb and ashamed in his mouth, as if it had failed to safeguard those three precious words.

Shimmering beneath the panic and anxious twist in his gut was a glimmer of something pure, something light that lifted Dean up even as he yearned to pound himself into the ground. He loved Cas. Maybe not the kind of love born out of endless Sundays spent in companionable silence, but the kind that was like a blooming cherry blossom unfurling to a cool spring breeze, filled with the promise of new beginnings.

“I love you,” Dean repeated softer this time, and wasn’t sure if those words were meant for Cas or himself.

“I—I can’t,” Cas choked. “I can’t tell anymore if I actually love you, or if I’m simply supposed to.” Pained anguish flashed beneath the cool blue of Cas’ eyes as every word lanced into Dean with poisoned tips until he was paralyzed. Cas pushed himself off the floor and gave Dean one long, hard look before pushing past him and out the door, leaving Dean rooted to the bedroom floor.


	7. Chapter 7

_  
Bells. There were so many goddamn bells. Cas turned to the man standing next to him and rolled his eyes. They weren’t his idea, but Charlie insisted, and since she planned everything exactly to Cas’ liking, he wasn’t going to fight her on some silly bells._

_It was too important of a day for Cas to focus on anything else but the man whose fingers slotted between his, filling up the empty space like he’d filled the emptiness in Cas’ soul. It all felt like a dream as they ran down the steps, hand in hand, in their pristine tuxedos and brilliantly shined leather shoes._

_Rice and flowers rained down on them like pixie dust. Cas felt light as a feather, his heart so full of love and happiness he was certain it would burst from his chest. Next to him—their shoulders bumping and rubbing with each step—Dean laughed as Charlie jumped out and latched onto him for a big hug. It was a jubilant laughter, throaty and full-bodied and the sound carried Cas all the way into the clouds. It was a sound he had fallen in love with, just as he’d fallen hopelessly in love with everything that was Dean Winchester._

_The limo door shut behind them with a gentle thud, the vehicle a bubble that muffled the sound of cheering and music, but Dean’s chuckles rang clear as bells in Cas’ ears._

_“Can you believe it?” Cas asked softly._

_“Believe what?”_

_“That we did it. We actually did it.” Cas’ breath hitched in his throat as he studied the ring wrapped contently around his finger._

_Dean slid to his knees in the space between Cas’ thighs. He took Cas’ hand into his own, their matching rings winking at each other in the dim light. Dean leaned forward, his eyes never leaving Cas, and brushed his warm lips against the curve of Cas’ palm._

_“Yeah, I can believe it,” Dean murmured, mouthing against soft skin until his lips found Cas’ ring. “There’s nowhere I’d rather be right n-now.”_

_“I l-love you, Dean.”_

_“I-I love you t-t-too, J-Jim-m-”_

_SYSTEM ERROR…_

_DATA CORRUPT…_

_CONTINUE? Y/N_

_…_

 

 

***

There were no windows in the Bunker. Dean screwed his eyes shut against the bright morning light and ducked further under the heavy blankets. Every morning he promised himself the damn simulator was getting turned off that day, but a small part of him that still clutched at hope like a lifeline wanted to hold out for just a little longer.

He might come back. Where else would he go? Dean curled up on his side, a bundle of blankets gathered close to his chest as he tried to coax his mind back to blissful slumber. It was no use, he’d been sleeping so much his limbs screamed to be stretched, and his brain was crawling up the proverbial wall as it demanded for stimulation other than guilt and self-pity.

He kept hoping if he stayed in bed long enough, one morning he would wake up to the whispered, “Morning, Dean,” that he longed to hear, lips as soft as rose petals brushing against the corner of Dean’s mouth for a proper morning greeting. It was funny how habits long since dead and buried could be unearthed so easily. How pathetic was Dean that it only took two weeks for him to grow so accustomed to the small gesture again that its absence left him bleeding like a gutted fish?

With a resigned huff of breath, Dean threw the blankets back and sat up, his legs swinging clumsily off the side as his feet hit the floor with a soft thud. The room spun in sickening circles and Dean clutched at his head, his fingers digging into his temple as he tried to sooth the burn of acid in the back of his throat. How many days had it been since he’d eaten a proper meal? Six? Seven? The days rolled into one another just like it did all those years ago, only this time Dean was drowning in a different flavour of grief.

Dean shuffled into the kitchen and put on the kettle. He rummaged around in the sink full of dirty dishes, found a mug with the least amount of gross stuck to the bottom, and gave it a sniff and a quick rinse before dropping in a mystery tea bag. Not like he’d taste the difference anyway, he just wanted something warm to chase away the numbing cold in his limbs, and maybe melt the icicles slicing into his soul.

With the hot mug cradled in one hand, Dean stood in front of the printer and punched a preset for something random; food was food, and Dean wasn’t feeling particularly picky. A soft beep emanated from the printer, accompanied by a red, blinking light that lit up a small cartoon wheat tassel.

“Fucking goddamn fuck!” Dean cursed and slammed the mug on the counter, hissing as blistering hot water splashed on his hand, the skin screaming red hot in pained protest. Dean stuck his hand under cold running water and sighed in relief when the excruciating heat cooled to a dull ache. He closed his eyes and willed his lungs to draw in deep, calming breaths, mentally berating himself for getting worked up over something as simple as reloading a carbohydrate block.

The storage room was next to the kitchen, but the thought of moving the extra few feet was simply too exhausting. Dean pulled the protein block from the printer’s loading tray and dropped into a chair at the table. He gnawed at the dense brick, his teeth (fuzzy with neglect) ached with every scraping bite.

Time held no meaning, its fingers desperately grasping at Dean, trying to pull him out of this torturous time loop he’d locked himself in. Dean didn’t want to move, didn’t want to venture into the workshop and finally contact Sam to let him know that he wasn’t coming to get him and Charlie after all. He sat there, his fingers greasy as he clutched at the protein brick, and played his big, stupid confession in his head over and over.

_“I—I can’t. I can’t tell anymore if I actually love you, or if I’m simply supposed to.”_

When Dean had woken up the morning after, the Bunker was deathly quiet and the tank was gone. He’d failed everyone, his brother, his best friend, all because he was a little lonely and a whole lot desperate.

He’d also failed Cas, the one person whose entire existence depended on Dean not being a raging asshole, and he couldn’t even do that. Maybe love meant a lot less to Dean than he believed, maybe he was really that self-centered and this was the universe telling him for a second time that he didn’t deserve what he’d had.

A soft whir of machinery pulled Dean out of his downward spiral into self-hatred. His ears perked up like a meerkat scenting a hyena even as his heart pounded against his chest in fear-tinged excitement. The protein brick watched silently from its perch on the dinner table as Dean tiptoed out of the kitchen into the hallway.

The clang of metal doors shutting was deafeningly loud, followed by the fans and vacuums in the decontamination chamber. Dean waited with his heart lodged in his throat, his knuckles white as he twisted his trusty wrench in both hands. Cas. Hope swelled up, a fire threatening to consume him, but the ashes of fear choked out that flame. It could be anyone, and if the recent wave of increased looting and killings were anything to go by, Dean was going to be in serious trouble if it wasn’t Cas walking through those doors.

The inner gates slid open on oiled rails, the whisper of metal on metal drowned out by the roar of a powerful engine. Bright headlights blinded him, and a single bead of sweat rolled down between his shoulder blades as Dean shielded his eyes. The vehicle rolled to a gentle stop into the workshop, the headlights blinked off and Dean breathed a sigh of relief as recognition sank in. The engine purred before sputtering into silence and Dean’s breath froze on the inhale as he watched the doors on either side of the tank swing open.

The wrench slipped from Dean’s fingers to land in a staccato of sharp clangs.

“Dean?”

“Holy shit,” Dean croaked. “Sam?” A tornado of relief swallowed him whole. Dean’s knees wobbled as adrenaline drained out of him, only to be replaced by a dizzying rush of dopamine and intoxicating elation.

A petite redhead popped out from behind Sam with an excited squeal. “Dean!” She charged into him with the grace of a wrecking ball, her small frame hitting him like a freight train even as her arms flung around his neck in a bone-crushing embrace.

“Charlie,” Dean breathed against her mop of flaming red hair, his arms squeezing her into him as if he was trying to absorb her body into his own. “My god, I’ve missed you.” He clung to the delicate form in his arms for a fraction longer before pulling back and turning to his brother.

“You’re looking—” Whatever Sam was about to say was cut off as Dean pulled him into a hug that would have broken Charlie in half. Dean inhaled deeply against the flannel of Sam’s shirt and shut his eyes against an onslaught of tears; Sam smelled like home. Dean’s arms trembled as they locked around Sam in a vice but he didn’t care, the pain was a sharp reminder that this wasn’t a dream, that Sam wasn’t going to dissolve into thin air as soon as he opened his eyes.

He couldn’t breathe. Dean wasn’t sure if the cause was Sam’s freakishly strong arms crushing him or his own sobs choking him, and despite his lungs’ persistent demand for air Dean only loosened his grip when the edges of his vision blurred from more than just tears.

Dean pulled back and gave Sam a quick once over. “You’re looking not so bad for a guy stuck underground for ten whole months,” he choked out around a hiccup and blinked away tears.

“Wish I could say the same for you, Dean.” Sam frowned. “You don’t look so good.”

“Just glad you’re here and safe.” Dean ignored the pointed, worried look Sam shot his way, instead his eyes flicked over Sam’s shoulder to the man still standing by the tank.

Sam followed Dean’s gaze and swallowed. “Cas, um, gave us the quick and dirty version. Charlie and I should unload the car and, um, get settled.”

Dean didn’t want Sam and Charlie out of his sight, but the way Cas avoided his eyes was a bucket of ice cold fear dumped on his head. “If you need anything, you know where to find me.” Dean squeezed Sam’s elbow and pulled him in for one last quick hug before turning to Cas. “Hey, Cas.”

“Dean.” Cas studied the toes of his boots.

“Hey…” Dean laid a gentle hand on Cas’ shoulder, the touch grounding. A second bead of sweat rolled down his spine. The Bunker was too warm and Dean made a mental note to check the climate controls once he’d had a chance make things right with Cas. “Thanks for...for bringing them here.”

Cas stared at Dean’s fingers, his head tilted in the way Dean had come to love. “Just because I didn’t want you going, didn’t mean I wasn’t going to get them.” He shrugged. Dean’s hand slipped from the slope of Cas’ shoulder and couldn’t help but feel like the gesture was on purpose.

“I...I’m just really glad they’re safe.” Dean smiled, the effort of something as simple as a small curve of lips was monumental.

Cas looked up from his boots and studied Dean with narrowed eyes, his expression blank save for the twitch of his jaw as he swallowed. Dean withered beneath that pointed stare and he struggled to draw breath. He had written and rewritten an apology in his head a million times. He knew exactly what he wanted to say when and if Cas came back, and now that the android was standing right in front of him, with his soul-piercing eyes and razor-sharp jawline, it took all of Dean’s working brain cells rubbing furiously together just to remember his name.

“Cas, I’m sorry,” Dean croaked at last. “I—”

“Dean.” Cas cut him off abruptly. Something flashed behind those pretty blue eyes, flickers of emotion that left Dean breathless because he never expected those eyes to be so alive. “I need you to wipe me.”

Air refused to enter his lungs. Why was the goddamn room so fucking warm? “I’m sorry?” Dean queried softly. He must have heard wrong, it was his mind playing tricks on him, it must be because why else would Cas say such an awful thing—

“I need you to wipe me clean,” Cas repeated, slower this time. His brows pinched and worry carved deep little grooves between them. “Dean are you alright?”

What Dean wanted to say was that he was fine, peachy, good as rain, but what came out was a broken little “no” choked on a desperate drag of air into disagreeable lungs. The room spun as the edges of his vision became fuzzy. He reached out, his hand grasping at air as Cas’ worried face flew back from him. His mouth was moving, but no words reached Dean’s ears. Then all was blessed darkness.

 

 

***

“...sure that’s what you want?”

_What’s going on?_

“No, Sam. I don’t want to, but it needs to be done.”

_Cas? Sam? What’re they talking about?_

“I know it didn’t go as planned, but isn’t there some—”

“No.”

“Cas, he needs you. You can surely see that.”

_Yes. God. I need you._

“That’s the thing, Sam. He needs...Jimmy. I’m not him. Never was.”

_No! No no no no!_

“...If it’s the only way…”

_Don’t listen to him! Sam!_

“It is. I can’t continue living knowing I’m always going to be in someone else’s shadow.”

_Please, Cas! Please…_

…

 

 

***

Dean blinked into near complete darkness. He held out one hand and his eyes could just make out the flex of fingers inches from his nose. He wiggled his toes and felt the silken slide of sheets against bare skin. Dean took a deep breath, his lungs expanding until they were fit to burst, and held it for a delicious moment as he luxuriated in the simple act of exchanging carbon dioxide for sweet oxygen. His head was a little fuzzy, as if something was picking at the edges of his mind, trying to remember.

The ache became a whole lot sharper when bits and pieces snapped together like a puzzle in his head.

Dean gasped, each breath no longer a luxury but an agonizing expansion of his chest. He thrashed the sheets away from him, limbs tangled in soft silk until he was free of their imprisonment. His feet hit the floor hard and pain shot up his heels. The pain was good, it was something for him to latch onto as he stumbled out of bed and scrabbled for the door handle.

Light speared into the room as Dean yanked open the door. His eyelids fluttered in protest and Dean hissed in pain, like a vampire stumbling into sunlight. Except Dean didn’t burst into flames, his heart only hurt like it was on fire. Voices drifted from down the hall. Dean followed the hushed sound to find Sam, Charlie, and Cas in the kitchen. Charlie was seated on the counter, sipping from a hot mug, her dangling feet tapping the cabinets in rhythmic thumps. Sam and Cas were at the table, their nearly untouched food congealing on the plates in front of them.

Conversation ground to a halt when Dean cleared his throat, and all three looked up as he stepped into the small space, worried glances flying between them like pixies on fire.

“I won’t do it,” Dean blurted. “You can’t make me.”

“Dean—”

“No, Sam, please,” Dean pleaded and sank to his haunches, leaning heavily against the door frame. Chair legs scraped against the concrete floor, a shadow fell over Dean’s hunched form as familiar boots stepped into Dean’s field of vision; there was a small scuff mark on the left toe.

“Dean.” Cas’ hands—the palms warm and smooth and so very gentle—cupped Dean’s cheeks and tilted his head back until Dean was staring into soft blue eyes. “Dean, you have to. It’s the right thing to do.”

“I can’t…” Dean’s breath hitched. “Fuck doing the right thing, Cas. I can’t lose you.”

“Hey, hey”—Cas’ grip tightened, one thumb brushing away a stray tears—“Dean, you don’t mean that; you’re not like that. You know this isn’t fair to me, or to you.”

“I don’t care,” Dean slurred through a wracking sob, his shoulders hunching as he curled in on himself. “I can’t–it’s too sudden. It’ll be like you died; you won’t even remember me. I can’t lose you like that, not again.”

“Dean, hey, look at me,” Cas murmured as he leaned in close, his forehead pressed gentle but firm against Dean’s. “You’re not losing me, not like that. I love you. I want to love you not because I think I’m supposed to, but because I want to.”

“Don’t you want to now?”

“I don’t want these memories; they’re not mine. I want to create our own, memories that belong to us alone.”

“We still can, Cas. These past few weeks—”

“—were wonderful. I want that, all of that.” Cas closed his eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. “I’ll come back to you. It may not be today, tomorrow, or even next week, but if it’s meant to be—and I know it is—then we’ll find each other again.”

Dean reached up and covered Cas’ hands with his own. He held on, his fingers digging into soft flesh, but Dean was falling anyway. His eyes darted from the sharp edge of Cas’ jaw to the pointed end of his nose, gaze lingering on those pink lips, remembering their distinctive taste when they covered his mouth in languid, soft kisses. Dean had believed he was the best cartographer of the galaxy behind Cas’ eyes, but he was so very wrong, and so very lost as he found himself falling into the vast universe hidden there, uncharted and ever expanding.

“Dean—”

Dean closed the small gap between them, his lips stealing Cas’ unspoken words with a chaste kiss. He knew he had to do this. He knew it was the right thing to do, but knowing the right path didn’t make the journey any easier and Dean almost didn’t have it in him to make anymore hard decisions. Almost.

“Alright, Cas.”

 

 

***

“I really did a damn good job, didn’t I,” Charlie mumbled, more to herself, as she ran curious fingers along the android’s cheek, tucking a stray strand of dark hair behind its ear.

“Too damn good, Char,” Dean replied. He tried to smile, but the weak curl of lips lacked any sincerity so he turned back to his monitor and his fingers resumed their tapping at the keyboard.

The android sat stiff and unmoving with a single cable connected to the back of its head. Its eyes were closed, luscious lashes fanned out against its cheeks. It looked in deep slumber, or so Dean had convinced himself to believe; the idea that he’d shut Cas down, killed him, was something Dean would not allow himself to acknowledge.

He glanced at the memory uploader, his fingers twitching as they hovered over the keyboard. Dean shook his head and felt the faintest of smiles pull at the corners of his lips. Cas would kill him.

“Okay guys,” Dean announced to the room. Sam and Charlie crowded behind him, both hovering as they peered over his shoulders at the single prompt on the monitor. Dean looked from his brother to his best friend, then turned his attention back to the screen and grinned.

“Let’s do this.”

 

 

***

_SYSTEM LOADING…_

_MEMORY UPLOAD SKIPPED..._

_PROCEED WITH INITIATION? Y/N_

_...Y_

_CEREBRAL ANDROID SYSTEM ONLINE_

_HELLO, ANDROID P0CASAGIv.2  
_

 

 

***

The android blinked, once, twice, and the luminescent glow in his eyes faded until they were simply blue. He turned to the left, his head tilted just so, and smiled.

“Hello, Dean.”


End file.
